Post Crash
life’s this-and-that
comes with an end,
down into a final tunnel,
sunlight’s edge,
a single precise chop,
plunge of fate’s cleaver.
all at once embarrassed,
and not fitting in,
weak as a whimper,
unable to travel or excel,
lonely in this forced self-
judgmental place,
where patience
dribbles pride into a bedpan.
it is now you
who speaks to ancestors,
you who conjures visions:
chimeras of carnal beasts
sinful of primeval parts.
it is you who watches
the outside world blur
into tricks of charades,
where puppets, who would puppeteer,
yank in a mutual harness so vast
none commandeers.
it is you
who no longer cares
about knots in the guts of social distress.
you who now feverish
makes love to a touchless spirit,
seeking more than anything
only her name.
and yet,
when the serene stills the circus,
no reward.
no god comes. no cheers.
the world, it breeds on,
ruddy from laughter,
as if someone had failed
to scrounge an epitaph
for your puny isle.
9/8 "her" replaces "their" ... wanted a female goddess theme, personal preference
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