“confession”

Waiting for confession
like a kerosene soaked rag;
like voices in a bath;
like ashes in an urn.
Soon, this will come to pass,
the act, the confession,
and the reaction.
It will all come to pass
like the match, the water, the wind,
and the struggle.
All of this, waiting for confession,
while you were outside, still having fun,
crashing your cars.
I doubt you even remember I am still here.

narrative poem written on 08-17-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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