Twisted.

That was my heart.

That was my mind.

So many years,

memories I could not find.

Dying in sterility,

lying on a platinum table.

The poem of ".45",

was no longer a fable.

The Shadow again came knocking on my door.

I once again heard the angels' score.

Had I harbored a secret invitation?

Had Mr. Shadow once again heard my frustration?

Aratatat tat, "Now?"

Take me then,

and leave me under the boat's bow.



But then again,

no,

not just yet.

Me and my grandmother,

have just made a bet.

She granted me mercy,

she gave me peace,

but she never gave me,

divine release.

I had to wake from this self-piety and sorrow.

I had to see once again,

the gold of tomorrow.



By: Roy Quebedeaux