Every now and then I spy on my neighbours—
a humble family of magpies—and I’ve always been struck
by how busy they are with their lives, but perhaps it’s easier
when you face your end after a measly few years.
With a lifespan like that, who would waste time
on meta-existence?
If a twopenny game is truly what it is, why do we cling to life so tightly,
and what compels us to bring yet more players? Could it be nature’s fault
for imprinting in us this insatiable thirst? Even so, greed is our own breed,
nurtured over millennia among the volumes of sonnets that fill the shelves
of the slaughterhouse.
I miss the comfort of ‘not yet,’ when everything was a possibility
that could easily become irrelevant if only shouting ‘hold your horses!’
to the offspring of impatience and thirst proved to be anything
but a fool’s errand. But nature knows no respect, and there was no moé
that could save me from what I had left behind in the muddy trenches.
Now the late life of mine is but a mere hindrance, leaving a bitter aftertaste
that occasionally soils my otaku path to the Shangri-la of demise.
Washing pills down with herbal tea,
like an evil bailiff, I contemplate the worth
of words born within the context
of a universe in slippers and flannels.
There is nothing wrong with seeking
restitution, but where does the respect
for war come from—just because it puts
every man on trial? So does primal solitude.
And I can understand the good intentions
behind the wish for a simple life in a cabin,
but even when faced with a point of no return,
no one likes to be petted, including nature.
Who is to judge if I’m wasting my life?
As far as nature is concerned,
I have already fulfilled my sole purpose
by passing on my genes.
Now all that’s left is to sustain my body
to the very end, whenever that may be.
All the rest is fodder that I convinced myself
I needed to stay determined to breathe:
buy a book, read a book, go to the beach,
tell someone you wish you loved them
no more.
hidden pilcrow 