Borrowed Time

As my spirit died my senses soared. My heart still beat, my eyes saw more. I heard not less - but loud and clear and sweat signed clearly all my fear. Holding firm to threads of now, disregarding the why and how, joining hands with never was, ending when and just because!

Each moment since my spirit died I questioned how I could survive. No liberation would be known; compassion could be rarely shown. Chains cast by the Devilís forge were tempered with no righteous cause. Though I have killed with thought and sword Iíve never murdered by my word

I am no Cain, though I have killed - I am Abel and victim still. Iíve been to earthly hell and back; in front of deathís dark door Iíve sat. Chains of despair, those links of pain are weakened as loveís strength I gain. Though Satan may re-forge those links their substance still retains their chinks.

Truth in war is the will to live; morals drain as if through a sieve. All senses die as horror numbs. Mans antithesis I have become. And pains of war always survive for aeons after peace arrives; deaths lure with its promise filled is tempting compared to life in hell.

I can and do write; reasons unclear to all but myself Ė mind numb with fear. To defend reality within my mind, to continue living while I define what I am, where I am, why I am me. The answerís nowhere that I can see. And if deaths promise is truer than lifeís why should I bother to bear this strife?

I know! I know! What I know is that my lifeís not mine; itís not mine to give. To Him I belong, and to those I love. When my turn comes to be with Him above I will gladly feel the chains of despair disintegrate softly with His breath of air. And I will look at Cainís Master below writhing in agony at my Godís blows.

©Anthony W. Pahl
28th February 2000

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