Even now
As I write
My heart rate
Just won’t dwindle
Or ease what racing
Demons
Lay dormant
Beneath this skin

When falsehoods
They call help
Just stave
How death impending
Hangs his scythe
Above me
Boldly calling Jon
Back home

As I’ve never felt
Such pain
Or these shallow breaths
For hours
Built of torture
By those masters
Who believe
Their answers right

While I pray
God never asks
If my actions
Warrant judgment
Thinking fear
My only weakness
And His trial
Feeling sick

Even while
This organ sprints
Stealing minutes
Hardly worthy
Of that penance
I keep facing
Every time
My pulse should skip

Being told
My nerves are shot
Or I’m anxious
Since believing
How the curtain
Will be falling
Very soon
Upon my stage

Taking bows
Before each joke
Speaks its mind
Without reaction
Where an audience
Thinks I’m faking
Being truthful
While they laugh

Never hearing
How this voice
Wanted nothing
But assurance
Or at least
A clap of comfort
To acknowledge
He was here.

– J. Pigno