Poem: What Of It

 

What Of It

 

to ask was not to see.

questions couldn’t polish the mirror clear.

they fell speck-like, instead,

to feed dunes of cries, loves, and stings,

a desert of dramas and urges

which had incarcerated all life, 

back to the very first plankton 

warmed by a nipple of sun.

 

every human died as fully as a beetle,

forgotten in the distance

as the shedding snake of life slithered on.

even gods, who endured a barrage of tests,

crumbled through their statuesque hearts.

 

it might have been acceptable,

except to hope was not to have.

to know was not to be free.

and justice existed to taunt.

the cruel continuous Gamble,

nothing could compensate for it,

not even joy that had no ceiling,

for fear had no floor.

 

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11/4/23 ... shortened the last sentence to remove unnecessary phrase

In philosophy, this poem would play into the "argument from evil."  It's a despairing poem.  But I see these poems as a part of a larger dialogue of truth and goodness.  That said, poems like these, similar to death, need to be taken seriously.   Why?  Because you and I, all of us, are in purgatory and, in this brutal, beautiful place, nothing is settled and everything is at stake.  Happy Halloween.