by Cam M. Roberts
As it is awoken from the nothing
to the imperative end-all-be-all,
it is verily spoken in various forms: No.
Lordy, irony, come to think of it, rejection
has no valence to what it evokes, not the slightest convergence
from trigger to subsequent heap, like a crack in the suction:
It embraces the cast of regret and the mold of ignorance.
A little bit is always too much and it’s never used
in the same breath as enough.
It’s barely ignored, but instead, acknowledged, it seems,
by all of creation, only regretted a bit
from the ignorance of what was unknown at the time -
Through the hole in the air, you hear it despairingly:
On earth as it is in heaven, within the Kingdom
whereas a new hell is made anew,
You can hear it in the silence, the faint sounds
of the passing day, the noise a house
makes throughout the night, be it the flocks
of over-populated geese shitting on windshields,
or the makeshift colony of fire-ants
digging deeper in the earthen ritual.
An afterthought invoking empty consolations
from the masses, “what a bunch of motherfuckers,”
You think. A horde of bless your hearts, crossed fingers
stiff behind exo-skeletal shells of fool’s gold fakery, as if they
were a shit-house baker of insects, a worm-religion to drive them home
minus their dogmatic backbones, only fatty-acids
churning in their varicose thoracic veins, biting down
thereon the bottom lip, and the vice-grip pliers
far from being any semblance to the jaws of life -
Evidenced in alienation & distance,
your testimonies give worship to the darkening days – Still becoming,
But the glimmers of hope come when the light commences at dawn,
staring you down like some strange voyeur fascinated by your grief.