Holding the Son
By David Mayfield

Are you cognizant of the hours we spent?
My sundry eyes are pointed high at the sky
Remembering: Time...

Do you realize what my life means?
It's more important than your books and history
Stellified by those words
Pages turn and are forgotten
Sometimes, like me.

Only highs and lows elevate your head up high
But it's the flatline that you miss as the pages fly by
Day to day we dream of what will be
Of course, the anger in your voice washes those away

Christmas comes and goes
Presents lie unopened in the trash
People, of your own blood, run from the lighted tree
And you always forget who put the star on top
Its a little angel holding the sun
And She cries every time the light burns out
(and it burned out 20 years ago)