Monday, August 10, 2015


He knew the savagery of dreams,
Nightmares with jaws and teeth like sharks,
Biting into each semblance of failure,
Chewing over any minor mistake,
Ripping open every instance of negligence
That came to be labelled gross.

Where are all the perfect people?
Why don't they have the grace to help the wounded?
In this world they dissemble and act as gods;
Like the deities of the ancient world
They are capricious and beyond challenge,
Kings and queens of excess and frivolity,
Yet worshipped nonetheless by the herd -
The mob that wields the sword that drains the heart of truth.

He died convinced he'd be forgotten;
Except that everyone would remember his errors,
And magnify them,
As if they belonged under a microscope,
Wriggling like malignant infections,
And swelling to spread their disease.
Nobody gathered to pronounce him good
By any measure of mankind.

So forgotten he was,
Even before the flames died.
His ashes mixed with the turquoise of the sea
And he was better for it.

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