Neitsche…1
Neitsche knew that God was dead
so now he’s gone to join Him.
Leaving us with emptiness
and endless mortal dreams.
Questioning the fact of death
invokes no right to life.
It only signals turpitude
and wicked new extremes.
Neitsche saw this new decline
as civilized expression.
It told a modern tragedy
comprised of broken dreams.
Mittens.
Approaching life with mittens on
protects the heart from pain.
But insulation fails the test
when nothing’s left to gain.
Frostbite becomes a treasured friend
when pain is not shut out.
It burns its way through walls of ice
and drives away all doubt.
The Sight.
Your sight survived despite belief --
a gift,
a curse,
a passion.
Against all odds --
against your God --
against profound convictions.
Your sight could not be wished away --
ignored,
disdained,
nor hidden.
The Lord said no --
it cannot be!
And yet it still continued.
What can I do?
If my words cannot impress the world
there's no one else to blame.
When all the world is unconcerned
with my sad attempt at fame.
If my end cannot convince the world
that it was glad I came,
then all my play at stringing words
is but a loser's game.
If the people of the world look up
at the mention of my name.
Then I will die with confidence
and pray you do the same.
Anger Management.
Anger Management.
I didn't like it when you died . . .
didn't want the world without you.
Couldn't think -- without you.
Not about the world --
or the implications of a world,
without you.
I didn't like it when you died . . .
couldn't find the energy to move.
Couldn't breathe -- without you.
Much less move --
step forward in time,
without you.
I didn't like it when you died . . .
wouldn't let my anger cool.
Couldn't smile -- without you.
Much less learn --
to forgive,
or understand --
a world that just kept turning . . .
without you.
A little flame…
Slow flames . . .
offer little heat --
meager light --
and feeble fire.
What they offer in duration . . .
falters --
falls short --
and disappoints.
They are a weak attempt at life . . .
Jaundiced --
Sallow --
and half-hearted.
They are all at once ignoble, somehow . . .
and jaded past redemption.
Hatred Enters the World.…
How will hatred enter the world
when human souls deplore it?
What entrance left alone so long
lets hatred come explore it?
Who is lost, and so inclined
to offer up the key?
Why would man condemn the world
by setting hatred free?
Tragedy.
Tragedy turns with exaggerated expressions --
never pausing to consider moderation.
It is not a moderate endeavor.
There is no graceful movement;
no comfort in its dance.
Only the Whirling --
Turning with wild abandon to the dark.
Tragedy is passion spent -- a residence for sorrow.
It languishes in broken songs.
It has no rhythm worth remembering,
no harmony binds its word.
There is no rhyme to slow its pace --
only dischord -- flat sounds --
a disenchanted melody punctuated by broken hearts.
Early Years of AIDS…
There is no conclusion
when dying out of turn.
There is an end --
a stopping --
shortness of breath . . .
But no conclusion --
or completion.
Only emptiness --
and waste.
Only promises made in haste . . .
while trying -
dying.