All the good poems are already taken. I think I got the worst. I would have liked, for instance, Jabberwocky, but Carroll got there first. And all the newer ones start out good, but never seem to quit quite right when they should.
It was some time ago, someone started something that no one could quite figure out how to finish.
Thus began the first, last, and only poem worth experiencing in real time, that is, the instinct to continue the struggle. Our simultaneous, competitive desires to save and destroy, enlighten and belittle, torture and heal, posess and set free those closest to us.
Transformative thinking occurs when your loss of control frightens you. Occasional self-inflicted autodestruction is inescapable. Usually, at this point, it’s been a while since you could do anything but smile, bob, and weave and attempt to readjust gracefully to the cowardly new world created during your denial, to begin reaffirmation of your flimsy notion of belief.
That void you call Self trades health for grief in effort to speak
to define the disease
the particular curiosities for lust and idolatry (read: hate and greed) within your soul.
Only fools will feel whole.
And it may last but seconds or worse you’re sentenced years of joy and cheer confined by an ominous presence of an Executioner’s date. A sword of Damocles hangs intransigent above your happiness, damning it. No one escapes Fate. It is not Fortune. Fate favors none.
I fear the brave who are not wise. So how came I then to lose the Sun, disguise my eyes, become that which I hate, to run blind of the prize. I can’t help but sing the only song that matters:
like the rings of Saturn
began so long before you, a pattern
which is and shall continue so long after you are dead it ain’t even worth being said. In fact, nothing is.
Entirely useless, every word. My even continuing, preposterously absurd. Yet I do consistently go on well past a reasoned end. I hate to delete but I sure love to send. I should stop but I dare not until I share that not talking is my biggest fear. I hope to overcome my tendancy to overexpound, for if one talks not, one might just hear. Reality is sound, but rarely is it clear.