A poem I'm rather proud off:

[capri0mni]

(From my Camp NaNoWriMo project):

THE QUESTION:

I navigate the steepness of the path
As gravel slides beneath my rolling wheels,
To join the stranger standing on the bank,
And share, in silence, the beauty of this place.
The curve of Highlands across the river's breadth,
The murmur of the water against stone,
The golden blush of light that fills the sky,
All this helps me forget the ticking clock.
“How long have you been in that chair?” he asks.
I answer without thinking: “All my life.”
“How sad,” he says.
His words have hit me like a sudden punch.
I mutter: “Actually, it's really not.”
But he's already going on his way,
His need to pity me now satisfied.
The words he spoke, however, hold their ground.
To squat, with all their kindred, in my thoughts.
My anger follows quickly after shock.
And I remember friends who've always walked
But suffered families who could not give their love.
Now, as the passing years have since unfurled,
I've replayed this meeting in my mind,
And thought of clever things I should have said--
A comfort of some sort, like counting sheep.
And yet, another question lurks within:
“Why did I even answer him at all?”
As if my words were something that I owed,
Each one dropped like coins into a slot
To purchase just a bit of due respect?