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Soap Box Poets

My Wasted Chance
by Zsuzsa Takacs

Now I won't die young,
another one of my wasted chances.
My decisions cant be explained by inexperience,
I'm seasoned, well matured for death.
I no longer weigh what would have been wiser
and I no longer am ashamed of myself.
I don't treat the wounds of self-respect.
There's a growing number of deeds
I wouldn't have done before,
and all is more brotherly and complete.
I regard this body of mine with understanding,
on our secrets walks I touch you calmly.
I gradually forget my fear, see
death as a brave and intimate engagement,
and I am no longer so impatient.
I don't need everyone to love me.
I still know the recurring wounds pain,
and that we finally say farewell, and with us
our language, our final jewel, is buried beneath the earth.
But in the morning I wake up numb and see
the nightmares of the evening as a passing disease.
I am pleased with my eyes growing dimmer and dimmer,
my skins fatigue, my voices fading.
The endlessness of plains replaces the mountains.
It might be terrifying, but I am free.

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