| Poems: 190708 |
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| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2008/07/19 21:53 |
190708A
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The condition
is one of continual mourning,
as the funeral processions proceed
casket by unmarked casket,
filled with almost, might have been,
not quite, were once possible but not now,
it is not whom you think that it is,
never happened, would have liked to
who teased only for the sake of the tease,
until it is all mostly a passing on
of mostly unidentified remains.
You have to bury your dead hopes,
as the dirt is thrown onto them,
claiming to the undertakers and then the sky
that the teardrops in your eyes
are only some dust blown into them.
It is the way that it tends to be,
even when you find you are alone,
having nothing personal left to bury,
other than the continual burying of your self
in whatever you would never have done
if you were not left to it so alone
your dreams snuffed out, like candles.
There is nothing to explain,
and a million reasons are the same
as there being no reasons at all.
You already know from experience,
if the call from that far above ever came,
it would come long past your midnight,
when you are lying beaten on your bed,
too beaten to get up to answer,
believing it is only another wrong number,
an autodialed message,
knowing it is too little, and too late
as your candle threatens to snuff out.
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190708B
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The constant erosion
starts into the bone beneath,
before the surface is torn away.
Only granite withstands it,
for a while longer,
and then that also crumbles.
When the name is forgotten,
if there was any significance,
it has joined with the mysteries.
You knew what would be better,
but knowing means it is always denied,
because it has to hurt much more than that.
The cowards refuse to kill you quickly,
so they try to frighten you stiff,
knowing eventually they will succeed.
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190708C
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No matter how hard you try,
you invariably find
you cannot do anything,
without a turn of luck,
and when luck does not turn,
you cannot do anything,
about the added loss,
knowing no one will help you
carry your burden,
knowing you cannot shake it loose,
no matter what you drop,
let go of, or refuse to accept,
another turn of bad luck,
you are nailed to it,
so you end up carrying it all
with you to your grave.
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190708D
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but if I said I did want you,
wanting you any more,
you would say I wanted you
far too much.
I could never want you,
exactly the right amount,
in any measures of wanting you,
and we are only a few more victims
of being the fools of want
made to find something else to want.
It continues that very same way,
until you find you can never want
whatever it is you should want,
and whatever wants you
is not of the wants
you could ever accept as wanting.
They tangled us in want.
They ruined us with need.
with all our twisted wants and needs.
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