By Paul O’Malley
Amid autumn air on a lover’s hill,
There you will find quite a churning chill.
It suits the crevasse with a touch so narrow,
And grinds the bone right down to marrow.
Feel this breeze squeeze itself through the gap,
Do you quiver?
Maybe you feel attacked.
You, young man, with a face turned to stone,
Does this define the feeling, alone?
Or does something else fuel your words here tonight?
The need to outlive the need to survive.
“I told you, I told you, I’m patient,” he cried,
“A lifetime uncertain”
“Is still certainly life.”