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I don’t know
I don’t know
I thought bereavement was enough
But maybe
I need to
clarify it down
to the cliche
I’m tired of burying bodies
That’s a given, and my ain’t we all
I’m tired of being surrounded by ghosts
Every breath being a breath for someone else
I’m tired of being amongst the dead
Is that clear enough, cliche enough?
Beware Tiamat
A deep fear of randomness is so widespread that it is surprising that it has no name. Religion provides a ready solace in most instances. It is only when scientists tie themselves in knots trying to deny its existence while retaining a natural interpretation of reality (seen in both physics and biology), that the primal fear becomes clearly evident.
Bereavement (I suppose)
I approach stunned, bewildered
A minesweeper’s brute concentration
Focused on the next step
Stepping aside ghosts
Step aside, make room,
Make room
It’s a throng now
Like, officially,
Like, at that point
Where you’d feel cursed
If you didn’t know better
I mourn the death of a friend,
And I feel guilty for forgetting,
However briefly, the old dead.
I thought I was coping just fine with yet another death.
Whatever, done this before, no problem, right?
But, maybe not.
I don’t know if I’m doing this right.
I don’t know if I’m using it as an excuse to write poetry
Or exploiting it to reach out
I’m emotionless
Calm and something else.
Some other feeling
I take these as common signs of bereavement.
Quote: Jorge Luis Borges On poetry
Poetry springs from something deeper; it’s beyond intelligence…It’s a thing of its own; it has a nature of its own.