Mark William Jackson

 

A Life 

 

Mark William Jackson

 

 

First was the birth, of course,

in hindsight relatively painless,

there were screams, but

nothing.

 

There were the obligatory celebrants,

paid nods to smile and offer praise,

in words taken from digital graffiti

& the margins              of the soul.

 

The days were jewels

encrusted in shite,

the polish out of reach on

the top shelf behind the poisons.

 

If I read 7 as an angle,

somewhat acute,

though school would teach me obtuse.

then 77 is

a parallel

(paradigm).

 

So, a man lived his life

in the shadow of a dream,

the silhouette pressed

against the white walls of expectations,

but nothing a can of paint

and wide brush couldn’t fix.

 

When the vultures are summoned

to pick at your bones

and fly into the sun,

will you have found what

you thought

you should be

looking for.

 

 

 

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