Perhaps, like Plath
and Sexton, along with
nameless Others,
Ars Moriendi,
the shared obsession
was rebellion
(against the self)
We do this our own way
Alone, like childhood
and candied P's & Q's
they all thought they were
getting and making a way
from direction(s).
All I know
is that life-
the stuff that makes us up
(in the middle)
guts, chakra, vim, what not,
is not the same stuff
we put out, project,
hold title(s) to,
but the real stuff must be
Here somewhere...
When the pain ultimately wins,
perhaps the prize is popularity
in passing
as if believing in the benefits
of retirement (afterlife),
such as a tomb and sarcophagus
with a cat and some gold
we would reap the forever fields
we would have our Faith
and it would be good
enough
or worth more than Now.
Well, my well must be empty.
I hear echoes in chambers,
growls in caves,
screams behind closet doors,
and pitch so thick all is
hollow, except these
twisted guts, gnawing and gnashing
kicking and screaming
frozen and struck dumb-
and still
I breathe
through it.
And even when it becomes difficult-
if not
Impossible to stand up-
right-w/ spine straight
and those familiar serrated red daggers
twist while
blue dots with white halos pulsate
behind closed i-lids-
(shhh...)
I know
All will pass.
Painting by Gabriël Metsu [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
