rummages through
the wires,
Holding tight to the life force
that wants to die --
It spills out the sad times
from the numbness
and sanities
Beyond any victories
of vanity.
It lays out there for us to feel,
as though we weren't
permitted,
As though such pain,
such beauty,
was not allowed.
We look around as our
jaws drop
To make sure we don't get
caught.
The primal wail of why-o-me
has only a thin professional
veneer,
As if the whole facade
will disappear
In a burning gyre of tears
insatiable to escape,
Yet also to reach there
once and for all,
the place of expression
Where the accounts
are settled
And the truth can
just be said
Without the blinding shadow
Of the distant other instead,
whose gaslight tortures
are innocent in the end.
The wail can't be stopped
in the infinite need
To be understood, though one
never will be,
only loved, in its way,
Which makes the spirit play
to slay,
The body's strings
in endless bend and sway
to shake and swing
The demons that were never there
away,
To be free, they say,
but that's not what it is at all --
It's loneliness we cannot bear,
we want to share the emptiness,
but it's not there.
