|
They say we are endowed with Free Will - |
|
at least that justifies our need for indecision. |
|
But between our insticts and the lust to kill |
|
we bow our heads in submission. |
|
They say that no man is an island |
|
but then they say our castles are our homes; |
|
it's felt the choice is ours, between peace and violence... |
|
oh, yes, we choose, alone? |
|
While the comet spreads its tail across the sky |
|
it nowhere near defines the course it flies, |
|
nor does it find its own direction. |
|
Though the path of the comet be sure, |
|
its constitution is not |
|
so its meaning is possibly more |
|
than the tracing of a tail |
|
in one brief shot at glory. |
|
Love and peace and individuality, |
|
so order and society are man-made? |
|
War and hate and dark depravity, |
|
or are we slaves? |
|
Channeling aggressive energies, |
|
the Death Wish and the Will to survive, |
|
into finding and preserving enemies, |
|
is that the only way we know that we're alive? |
|
In the slaughterhouse all corpses smell the same, |
|
whether queens or pawns or innocents at the game; |
|
in the cemetery a uniform cloaks the graves |
|
except for outward pomp and circumstance. |
|
There is a time set in the calendar |
|
when all reason seems barely enough |
|
to sustain all the shooting stars: |
|
times are rough. |
|
I'm waiting for something to happen here, |
|
it feels as though it's long overdue... |
|
maybe a restatement of yesteryear |
|
or something entirely new. |
|
And the knowledge that we gain in part |
|
always leads us closer to the very start, |
|
and to the founding questions: |
|
How can I tell that the road signed to hell |
|
doesn't lead up to heaven? |
|
What can I say when, in some obscure way, |
|
I am my own direction? |
