Black Sheep

January 25, 2014

Distant streetlights bounced
To and fro as he jogged down
The puddle-ridden lane. The
Torrential rainfall had finally
Subsided, and now as he made
His way along the river-bank,
A thick mist lowered itself onto
The city skyline. Everything
Was damp, soaked to the bone.
He stopped, briefly, at the
Very edge of the bike path,
To catch his breath and gaze
Across the hazy river, moving
So slowly that it was almost

He remembered his father’s
Final words, as he stood there
Still unable to process them:
“Fortune favors the bold.”
As if there were some magic
Doorway that he had only to
Step through and his life
Would fall into place.

The nurses had said he went
In the night, peacefully.
How did they know he didn’t
Wake, and question himself?
How could they know?
Black sheep still give wool,
And his father would not
Accept Death’s shears
Without a good fight.
Now, as mist permeated
His loose layers of clothing
And saturated his soles,
He could almost hear his
Father’s stifled laughter:
“Go out there and live.”



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