Where the Pavement meets the grass

Time aches in his bones.  The endless tick of a dying clock.  A crouched figure sitting 

breathing

blinking 

dying.

In a corner, where the grass meets the pavement,. 

Where death meets life. 

And the sun doesn’t care, for it shines brighter on this day then his first. 

Brighter then when his breath burst into the world.  

It’s  like warmth trickling onto parched skin.  And death oozing into shadows, that grow day by day. 

Where death out lives birth

That is where the grass meets the pavment.

Yet still the ants crawl over the steel rims of the wheel chair. 

Biting

crawling

climbing 

over the metal trap that shackles a life time full of memories. 

Sights and sounds that have been lost in the abyss of history. 

In the time where he is from  life  was a smell.  A perfume that can be obtained through  trails and hardships, 

that dripped with honey and triumph. 

Its very essence was euphoria. The smell of youth and love.  Where days met the nights in glorious applause. 

And all was good. 

For that is the grass that meets the pavement. 

But this is not what death smells like. 

 For death is a pollution a smog that covers one soul. It is like the cement where the grass meets the pavement.  Gritty gravel concealing the surface chocking the life flow. 

There is no time for the final bow for it is 

the stop to time.  

A darkness with unknown infinity .  

Nothing grows, for no living thing would know how. There is no sunlight,  no cool breeze.  The trees don’t sway and flowers don’t bloom. No one prays for another day to

live

for there are no more days.

No lovers arms wait for you

but unknown ones stretching out into  the ravine of 

death.  

Greeting you with icy coldess. 

And all may still be good. 

It could be better then this awkward space between the finish and the beginning.  

Between the destruction and the release.  

The existence and the demise, 

Where the pavement meets the grass.