The Day I Realized I Was Art

With an unsteady hand and a shorter breath
I picked up the pieces of broken word
and choked back the curses and sobs
for another brother lost at sea.

The taillights don't lie as they wink
into the distance of another southern night
and the old familiar ghost is given up
for a greener grass.

Ink pressed flesh will live on
and the choirs will still sing
even after I am buried and forgotten.

It was then that I thought
of all of the souls that I cannot forgive
for this offense or that offense
or sin of my own omission.

We were brothers on the day
that he lost his own
and I hugged him at the funeral as he sobbed
for the lifeless thing in the padded box.

But tonight my brother left
and the porchlight turned off
and the door clicked its final lock
and I attended another living funeral.

I will never speak that name again
though it burns inside my skin.