Last Pages

Discontent is a constant
just as good as happiness –

It’s all the same
awake or at rest

I find myself here at every
last page

I could eat funny cookies every day
or fill the gap of doubt
with mushroom caps
or acid or Christianity

and
I could see something beautiful
but nothing would change

unless I believed it so
Just as I am sad
my happiness deranged

I could finish one last page
in my Book of happys
and unhappys,
find myself anywhere
in the end

I am no prodigal daughter
in the moonlight
naming stars

I am no crying martyr in sunlight
who laughs for all the same reasons
as I did many seasons
ago
I know
and I knew
all things are too bright
and too dark to fall through
either way
in death or in a day

Happiness is working for money
you can’t make
or the hellos to a stranger
lost on a train

Happiness is having somebody to call
at all
even if they don’t
pick up the phone
when you need them
that moment the most

But, they always call back
once your breathing is
no longer
erratic and suicidal, is
no longer flesh on bones
a rotting recital

Discontent is just the right mess
disguised in a mask
of challenge or pain;
it is a frown that breaks into beauty
at the surprise of
sunshiney rain

I always smile
on the last page

No matter the paths I’ve aged
since the last
or the longing un-understandable
that I know alone and Saved

Each last page that I reach
is a peace and a rage
of Me

I am reborn in grief and mourning momentum
lifted by ribbons
on the straps of my soul,
flying away with my smile numbered “None”
and dutifully named only
as “Old

and never lonely”

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