Saturday, January 25, 2014

But a Walking Shadow

I bite my nails with purpose;
Like there is something
Resembling the truth
Down in the pulp and bloody dust.

Anxiety counts my steps;
Why was I born
With the ability to reason
When a dog's life would have suited me fine?

I could have had a purpose;
Eat, sleep, fuck--
But instead I am cursed
With the ability to ask 'why'
And the wherefore
To do nothing
About it.

When man first dreamed up god
We must have felt
Everything was sorted--
This is a foundation upon which we build.

But our god is just as bored as us
And just as hollow.

There are not enough belts
Not enough necks
Not enough pills or bullets
Ledges or sidewalks
To settle man's accounts.

We are he and he is it--
We must hold this cold fire
Until it burns our fingers
Until the last idiot song
Ceases to play.

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