The Transition

By Christopher Rupley


The sweat of his brow

reminds him of his anger,

the drumbeat of a time

when nothing ran his mind

but muscle memory


When he simply

lashed out,



and hurling words



And his path was

ill-guided until

he saw the light,

low hanging on the horizon,

but not too far out

for him to grasp


This love surrounded

his hate,

his eternal night,

and choked the beast

to death in a relentless,

yet fruitful fight…


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