...to think that poets are right.
that two hearts can beat as one,
when the reality is autopsied
the bloody mess is exposed to air,
and the once-working organs begin
their last life-experience, death.

well,

even then, one heart can't beat as one
much less two.

so i live between the lines:
drawn by others,
judged by society,
measured by same-said
and hope i make the cut, the grade,
that the shining star of approval will be mine.

such is me; the me sitting here
and the me that's in another existence,
another life, perhaps Kathamandu, or Zaire or Venus
and in this life too, i try to live
by the words given me by others.

silent words from another's eyes
bellowing disparagement, therefore, disengagement,
and i allow myself to get small rather than
be Quixotish--for my dragons are but windmills
to the echelon of We.

i'll never be right when arguing existence
with them, they're too many.
so i'll be light and airy, heavy and metal,
i'll retain some luminescence but become dull
to the retina of equality and
staying under the radar of Known
i'll become a vase of memories one day
on my father's belly as we both know
in life and in death,

they always win.

07/25/2005

Posted on 07/25/2005
Copyright © 2025 Charlie Morgan