The Awaiting Message
by Michael Keshigian



Approaching dusk breaks his heart,
the rising moon represents nothing more
than a source of inactivity,
because, of course, he loves the dawn,
the noisy, cacophonous conversations of birds,
bugs, and bees in buds,
forging him forward daily
in his khaki shorts and sleeveless attire
to sit in the park with bottled water
and celebrate how good life has been.
But the moment has arrived,
his levels of attainment have climaxed
and his sense of contentment
has been distracted by a dove
perched on the bench alongside,
a handsome specimen with dark eyes
and snow white down,
though its tail feathers streaked
rainbow colors to which he inferred
that the fowl had flown from paradise
to become his guide through a beautiful death,
navigating dark shadows
and intoxicating fumes toward a point
where blue walls radiate
a continuous light behind the black sheet
the stars attempt to obscure,
where he will sit upon a stool of sunshine
and this messenger muse will explain all,
reinforcing the significance of his presence,
how his efforts will influence
rather than evaporate in a toxic doom
the sciences foresee,
that the heavens will not collapse,
that he was not born by chance
to occupy a temporary space
in a cryptic, accidental place.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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