I think it was the STD’s
got me to thinking about
unfortunates in our
protection-ness, like real sad ideas -
As often flames moan.
How weariness becomes tender by now
Between the sheets of
the moment, to witness a denial
Of meaning. Wont to
perfection or at least some reckoning -
A magistrate of purpose,
not for the wary or timid.
Back at home, the pale
sheets smell familiar – like rosemary,
With the slightest hint
of urine – now we’re beginning to think
There is no ‘I’ – though
rampant, the disease simply using us.
But there’s no ‘we’ –
thus, no ‘us’ - Who’s in charge of reality?
No reader – no writer at
all, for if there were, only Death
Pronounces this this…
‘omniscient’ behavior of the buried.
Enough to exchange the
bodily fluids within our charms –
While ghosts interact –
we wander off to Heaven and to Hell.