POEM WRITTEN ON A DARK SUNDAY AFTERNOON by A.D. Winans

So it has come to this
73 years, days and nights
Of aches and pain
Soon to turn seventy-four
lady death a lurking whore
harder still to write
73 years and I still haven’t
got it down right
wandering in sightless sight
And I do not fear death
I will fight her with every breath
Aches and pains aside
I treasure my daily walk
a morning cup of coffee
An evening glass of wine
gossip with a friend
and yet I am but a guest
In this body as my father was in his

The silence of winter approaches
a telescope that scopes my mind
I walk inside my head
an unexplored canyon where
gulag monsters lurk
Serving minute portions of filet mignon
To the chosen elite
God and Jesus competing for my attention
One plays with thunder one with lightning
Satan answers with a tornado
Man left with nothing but genocide
And mass terror

The months multiply into years
the saxophone my holy father
the drummer my sacrament
Poetry my substance
what better pallbearers to scatter
my ashes into the wind