One day,
I always told myself,
the poetry won’t come
so easily.

One day,
you will be alone
in a room
without even your own
to keep you company.

One day,
the colors won’t flush
like they once did.
They won’t drip.
They won’t dry.
They won’t stimulate the eye.

One day,
your voice;
you will cease
to recognize the pattern
that once delivered
like loaded dice.

One day,
you will be cold and nothing
will warm you

One day
will come. Yes.
And I will be ready
whether I am ready
or not
when it does.

One day,
I always told myself
is not this day.


Not today.
This day,
I always tell myself
is the day
that everything spills
and nothing is messed.
This day is the day
I am all of myself
and the poem will poem
and the color will color
and the voice will voice
and the cold will warm.
The cold will warm
because this day
is not that day
I always told myself
to be ready for.
This day is today.
This day,
I am fully thankful for.
This day,
I am my own home.
This day,
I begin;
even if at its end.
This day,
a miracle.

written on 03/14/2016 by: Matt Kane