The Haggard Face of Sleep

Haggard face
The face looks out of the mirror on the wall,
At first haggard from brutality of restless sleep—
Puffy eyes, wrinkles on morning’s brow,
Mind wonders if the vintage heart still beats.

I stand there staring, growing older by the minute,
Bones creaking from aging, soft decay of ligament,
Tangled memories leaking salt, dehydrated sagging flesh.
And all I can think is that my hair’s a bloody mess.

Where is the man I was not many years ago—
Before complexity, able to endure the dancing night?
Hot feelings of the groin seem lost, washed away
Like topsoil eroded on the farm back home.

Will ever again I stand before a burning bush—
Sense the warmth of God, hear the Voice
Calling yet to greater things, wild eternal dreams—
Or only thorny rose, lonely cross, and healing grave that waits?

Now I pause, walk to shower with folded wings….
Trust hot water will restore a breath of rising hope—
A lark, a dove, some Spirit now absorbed,
Then walk again with head held high into a wider hour.

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