By John. W
The comic’s skit at this point was simply hilarious.
One hardly needed to juxtapose the alternatives to see
That the choice between letting one eat cake could be
On one hand with death on the other so bluntly obvious.
I could hear in my mind’s recesses the audience laughter
As a soon to be headless French Queen lost to reality.
The comic’s revised order to soldiers the option of civility:
Offer them Cake or Death, a treat now or the eternal everafter.
Who would ever choose to die, with another selection so attractive?
There of course was the innate humor in the comic’s query.
Yet I had faced that liquid choice daily, choosing death and misery.
The sweetness of Cake rejected, the result so self-destructive.
The gauntlet to my guillotine marked by taverns and recycling.
The stats to my block, papered with broken promises and lies.
In the end, alone, only myself to thank, only myself to despise.
Abandoned hope accelerating my relentless downward spiraling.
From whence the whisper came, I doubt I shall ever know.
But clear and definite it was, like a long lost, dear friend.
Breathing in silent earnestness, “This is not your end.”
Cajoling me to listen and in my veins let this spirit flow.
Once again the Decision was upon me, I had to make a choice.
Though the battle was again joined, something had changed in me.
I had abandoned myself to this Power Greater than Me to be free
Of the booze and its trappings, to seek instead that new Voice.
