the ripping of it
and how, natural as it is,
it doesn’t feel right.
But what is right?
And who am I
to know, to say, to judge?
The part of every story that we hate.
The words mixed up, the prose awkward
and we always want a different ending.
And I’ve been thinking that departure can feel
or like a rapid current in the agony of life’s ebbing river.
About how the oscitance of passage
pulls in, too, the protesting pieces
of those left behind.so we’re
each time a little less
Yes, the gateway
yawns, lazy-like and shards of our
glass hearts fly in with the summoned.
Maybe they’re collected, those bits, constructed anew
But I don’t know.
Immanent, Innate, born to die. To live.
declares her will, her time and we gape (each time) in shock.
How dare she?
She advances with a vow.
We retreat, denying.
The sum and substance in the end so brief and we realize we’ve only skimmed.
And who or what is there to loathe when life at last is finished?
No. Bitterness is for those here and we alienate ourselves from the inevitable
and from love, which is all we really have.
because mocking death travels with a mixed bag and we want
nice and tidy.
Who can handle the profundity of the commonplace fact of finality, the rhymeless,
unpoetical and unrehearsed tragedy when all
along we’ve begged for clowns.
fumbling, we place flowers (which, too, will die) by words engraved, words,
Our hearts, raw, ache, incompetent toThough distinct in details, death is not diverse.
beat alone within the poverty of our existence.
beggars who know not anymore what we
want- more or less?
But still, I feel my words to be like death, an interrupted sequence.
I have no lines to close with.
submitting at dverse