Poem By Werner Schmidt

For Christiaan

Every morning,
I resurrect myself to face your question,
the mirror and what I want to ask of you.
Then we dance, I guess.
Your coat flashes like ravens in the sun -
and that shiny sickle!
A wrestle dance between a small boy and a cage fighter.
My allotted time is my cage,
my stage
where all of this must happen.

I lunch with my friend at a pizza place.
We talk away like two rolls of flesh around crazy dreams, and
knock back craft beer, red wine and wood-fired pizza.


We talk about you like we always do
around this darkest drink of all
and its eternal aroma.

I expressed a light bulb moment to this brother:
The Reaper is as close as...
and I take a deep breath.
We laugh. Yes, yes, that's it! We should walk with you
despite your sombre sickle.

Ten hours later, you grabbed the mic:
"Werner, about your little pizza performance
earlier today, remember, about how close I supposedly am …?
I almost took this brother of yours breathlessly (saved by CPR)
into his next black hole to face the biggest question you fleshies will ever have.
To which I can only say
make every morning a good mourning
and you'll be fine
in more ways than won.

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