death is irrelevant and
prejudice against living large.
no cordial response will
change one iota of this.
anger issues purse justifiable
homicide victims of death
chasing innocents from here
till hell and back just for kicks
and giggles faking laughter.
our poetry does not become us.
our poetry is us from the get-go.
we do not conquer our poetry,
our poetry conquers us.
good, bad, indifferent,
makes little mind of this;
this is all of what we become.
that we not forfeit all our
commonsense, as we twist
and turn to all that mania
keeping us awake and fearful
of tomorrow's fools, aiming
to take prisoners for a cause
yet to be decided.
we seek the truth. truth seeks us, but
a vast space separates truth from us.
a gray mist of disparity keeps us apart;
assuring truth and we shall never meet
as insanity sweeps us off our feet.
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