It Is Mine Poem by Martin Lochner

I felt that you hesitated when you composed me dear Lord?
sitting in you spleen, embryonic in your everlasting midnight
celestial morning a poem, bundled in teenager arms crying “life over”

hesitant, brooding and on the verge of saying what I always knew

“ She did not love me”
“ She did not want me”

33 summers and this highway high noon, the light shines so achingly perfect and sure
“whose light is it anyway? ” a sideway beggar moans

“it is mine”

.