Bridge
more tired than anytime,
unable to excuse my hate,
i stood at the vertical crossroads,
and uncaged the demons
that tormented me for no other reason
than to curse my conscience:
the paradox of a love that faltered
in the grip of its own pain.
life's illusion had been good,
vanity's masquerade,
the pleasures of sated wolves.
but the truth, it was different.
the truth, it was rabbits.
and rabbits, it was true,
existed only because their ancestors
sometimes dodged jaws.
the people i had seen everyday,
did not know what they were,
but had decided they were not base.
they had forgotten, most of all,
if they had trapped themselves
without intending to dig the trench.
especially i couldn’t trust
the most convincing smiles.
it was true, though, that monsters
always swore they did nothing wrong,
such as the one who claimed loved
and raped and raped and raped.
the wealthy abused the poor, the Earth,
and whatever else they could gobble
while praising each others'
generous, wonderful hearts.
how beauty was precious, yes,
but liars stole that light,
and then used it to beguile the innocent,
because, because, because
they wanted safety in gold
as much as no one had the courage
to speak up.
only a few angels had the will
to look around and see how corrupt it all was,
the gilded glamourous glow of the evil towers,
and possess the wings not to jump.
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