The man in bed lying
before me is not my future.
The reflections trying
to have me make mine his suture
are kept at bay by stinging truth,
and hope that hurts to touch.
Much is left to crying out
when it gets to be too much.
But for heavy sighing,
Today, such touch is truly
a daft, a deft, a defying
way of seeing what lie in clutch:
A reflection of myself
dying.
Our house is haunted;
He’s unwanted.
Our détente’s dead on his death bed.
And I can’t stop thinking about what
Gauss, savant, said was just in Kant’s head;
I’m in mine:
dreading space as naught.
Sense is rotten?
This was plotted.
Out, damned spot,
I’ve not forgotten.
But I’m not the one facing the coffin;
His plot’s been sodded.
Then all that’s left for me is to brace to soften his cutoff,
And…
And…
I think he knows
I think we all know:
Ghosts don’t live forever…
So, while the days compile,
We’ll reconcile to see him smile.
And I’ll look into this funhouse mirror
To the future and fear…
My hips really are that fat.
And so, too, will my liver be.
Could broken child,
Askew, reviled,
Eschew his wild
Sinful lifestyle?
In denial
I’ll seek asylum
From the vilest
Fears.
I’m on trial then?
Kafka style end—
Not a nihilist,
But an island.
And, shuttering,
I’m still insane
As inhumane,
Smear-cursed Cain
Can only hear his Pop’s ordain:
“Let glory reign!”
Yet brother dearest can only claim:
“We’re not the same!”
—Oh, ya think?
Who else can you blame?
I think he knows
I think we all know.
Ghosts walk the earth forever.