Not Like This

It doesn’t end.

It won’t end like this.

The story I’m a part of,

The life I live,

Doesn’t end like this.

It still has to unfold,

Take turns,

Bend curves,

Go up mountains,

And down hills.

I’ve heard the heartbeat.

Beating like a drummer’s drum,

And singing like a choir’s hum.

I’ve heard the words spoken.

From your soft rose lips,

And from the gyration of your hips.

I’ve heard the flight of doves.

Flying above the trees that rustle,

And flying with a patriotic whistle.

I’ve heard ghosts in shadows.

Drifting in out of the corner,

And drifting lovers to the altar.

It doesn’t end,

Not until its accomplished.

Not until bread meets wine.

And wine touches my mouth.

It doesn’t end.

Not like this.

© 2006 David Greg Harth

06.12.01.17:02:00@205HudsonNYC