THERE MAY WELL BE

THERE MAY WELL BE

There may well be a reason to linger,
On the precipice of a waking dream.
It may well be that Death's shriveled finger,
Is not yet beckoning for a reckoning with me.

There may well be a verdant space on earth,
Where I can chart a future and plan my own rebirth.
I cannot see God's wisdom nor his vaunted master plan,
I shrink and pale before his presence,
There are things I don't yet understand.

There may well be a golden age,
Where I can write my own last page.
A place for someone strange like me,
To step and strutter on the stage.
A cool bright land of psychedelia,
To soak up all my melancholia,
There very well may be, though the chance is slim and slight,
A way to tunnel underneath the fog of this my darkest night.
To swim in the river of forgetfulness, to fortify my castle,
To graduate at a faster rate, to earn my cap and tassel.

There may well be a hiding place, where i can find a saving grace.
A solving of the mystery, an island home for you and me.
Where we can dance a merry jig, call the friends and roast a pig,
We still have time for the wedding, still have time for a honeymoon,
Although the world falls down around us and Fate pops our balloon.

There may well be a reason for this disease and for this fight,
For the breath of angels to feather over me, caress me in the night.
I know not the Father's wisdom, nor that of his Son.
I only know that Death waits at the end for everyone.
There may well be a reason for him to look the other way,
To lay down his hood and sickle and come back some other day.
There may well be a reason to expect a sunny clime,
Before the snow it comes to fall and lift me out of time.

But all I know is the certainty of the moment, the sacredness of now,
I'm standing in the stern of the boat or perhaps it is the prow.
So hard to chart the course I sail, so I hold on fierce and fast,
To the love you've always shown me, a love I know will last.
There may well be a tragedy in the face of our tomorrow,
There may well be a river of respite or a raging tide of sorrow,
Our fortune could swing either way, it is only for the gods to say.
We may as well release them, surrender to their kismet,
And dance a loving minuet into the fading sunset.

I know not how to flee Death's shrewd and shriveled finger,
So in the passway here I wait and fondly still I linger.
Wondering if there's anything to heal me or to set me free,
And I am loath to give up hope, for in truth there may well be.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED