Last of May

Come what may,
I've wrote.
I've waxed wroth.
I've spoken of the self,
and the things that I've lifted
and gifted
and put up on the shelf.
I've spoken of the womb,
and of the tomb.
I spoke of the souls around me.
I spoke of my power,
my weakness,
my life and my love.
I spoke of what you did to me.
Of what you gave,
and what you took.
What you kept,
what you forsook.

I've strung together rhymes.
I've thrown them aside.
Blood has split -
my own, others.
I've spoken of hungers that shouldn't be named.
I've poured forth tears and sweat and spite.
I've been a king,
a pauper.
A lover, a fighter,
a weakling who mewled and whimpered.
A giant bestride the globe.

I've spoken of things I don't understand,
and things that I understand all too well.
I've spoken of God,
the Devil,
Heaven and Hell.
I've brandished goods I have no right to sell.
Coin to spend that isn't mine.
I've spoken of time.
I have so very much of it.

Thirty-one days.
I spoke of it all.
Thirty-one days.
Thirty-one ways.
Thirty-one prayers and blasphemies.
Thirty-one wine-soaked, medicated, smoked-out evenings.
Thirty-one bright, gloomy, torrential, oppressive and liberating afternoons.
Thirty-one mornings largely slumbered away.
Thirty-one days spent speaking.

I spoke of it all, and I was mute.

And there are so many days to come.

Come what may.