– an epistle to matthew b. –

You may never read such words

on nights either fiery or frozen.

Still, in case you haven’t heard,

for this letter, you are chosen.

I did not see your headlight coming,

in the eve of a promising June.

Naturally, I started my running,

knowing broken friendly gloom.

Dirty looks and nicknames aside,

we fell upon simple understanding.

You understood my manic rhyme:

I saw your trials demanding.

34, without hair upon head,

symbols on the back of your neck now,

short in stature and hard as lead,

you see in my eyes the respect now.

I’ve taken my bow without a glance;

my worth screams from the core.

So tell me now and make your stance…

when will you see yours?

Finance is a grand and fickle bitch;

I’m wise to such a reality,

yet if you feel that grand ol’ itch,

will you suffer in your humanity?

Wisdom and wonder in winter or summer,

you need to leave one day soon.

No matter which runner, a Honda or a Hummer,

you could go as far over the moon.

You claim that I am a good soul

and deserve happiness for myself.

In closing, please sir, be too bold…

seek that happiness from life’s shelf.

D.J. Whisenant

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