Wednesday, November 19, 2014

On Thrift Shop Row

The woe-betided dead,
the stupid dead,
hanging for dear life,
all one long mistake,
they almost speak
in weaknesses of hinges.

They didn't care what God once thought of them
but dressed, for all intents, to impress, one must guess, Satan.
They tortured every lie out,
corrected every truth (save their complaint)
to blacken their tracks,
hide themselves in these shadows.

And when the push back beckoned
those who died to be right,
who traipsed that line between pride and authenticity,
saw only how they'd stilled a beating heart,
their own, of the one, with ice

still whole, not subdivided like the flames
that turned to gentle ashes
to nurture all that's called the name of life
beneath the shadows growing large
in bare and brittle afternoons
where teacups still are filled.

What kind of life is this that gives no thought for any others
when others always were all that you are,
no matter all the sips you stole to call them yours.

1 comment:

goatman said...

I feel that others are what we are.

Together we make up the life and participate in the flow.

Nice words there in your poetry.