Bridge
more tired than anytime,
unable to excuse my hate,
i stood at the vertical crossroads,
and i uncaged the demons
that tormented me for no other reason
than to curse my conscience:
the paradox of love faltering
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 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 they understood that they would not change.
they had forgotten, most of all,
whether they had buried themselves
without intending to dig the trench.
especially i couldn’t trust
the most convincing smiles.
it was especially true that monsters
always swore they did nothing wrong.
such as the one who claimed to love ...
and then raped and raped and raped.
the wealthy abused the poor, the Earth,
and whatever else they could gobble,
meanwhile praising each others'
generous, wonderful hearts.
how beauty was precious, yes.
but liars stole the light,
and dangled it to beguile the innocent.
because because because,
as much as anything else,
no one had the courage
to speak up.
except a few angels. they had the will.
they looked around and saw how fake it all was,
how corrupt and cruel and despicable,
the gilded glamourous glow of the phallic towers.
only they possessed the wings not to fall
when they jumped.
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