Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Not Me: Meditation On The Life of Augustine

by CWK

“It’s me,” she said,
“Me! Don’t you remember?
Remember the nights of passion?
The wild life? Highways and high fashion?
Don’t you remember? Don’t you miss me?
Come now, my old friend, and kiss me.”

“It’s not me,” I replied,
“Yes you, not me. I died.”

I saw her lingering near the portico
and something in me came alive
which I had long wished dead.
She wound through the night,
and the moon shone bright, quite red.
Her eyes were on fire
with long latent desire.
The lines in her face were stolid, starker;
her hair was still golden, but somehow darker.

She looked younger and older.
For my part, I was wiser and colder.
A moment passed, my heart beat fast;
a brief glance of recognition then cast --
but it faded, and we stood two strangers.
And my life passed to death in one deep breath,
and I felt forgotten, safe, absent from danger.

It is you, but not me.
I am not the person you knew.
I hardly recognize that man:
his face young; his heart faithless:
his eyes haughty, his ways reckless.
I hate the sight of him.
That was not me, is not me, is not who I am.
He departed to Sheol. May he be damned.

“It’s not me,” I replied,
“Yes you, not me; I died.”

No comments:

Post a Comment