A POEM

EVERYONE GETS THEIR LITTLE CHANCE TO DIE

By Alex Ziperovich

 

Convicted and condemned, blessed with the hatred of men,

The way the world spins is the way the world will end.

 

Like drinking from the sun, burning your tongue, like wasps encircling your lungs,

So hard to breath, gasping with your eyes, malevolent songs, sung by hysterical nuns.

 

Go to a river and drink up the sorrow, let it cool your throat and be promised tomorrow, vanish this place, let it rise up in flames, let the deity’s above look down, amazed in their rage.

 

The God’s are silly, confused masters sitting idly playing chess, complacent, racing to fire their most basic replacements, fucking each other breeding all types of hatred, give me a kiss and I’ll find my way back to your sacred, but for now it seems that place is vacant.

 

Let the redemption wash over our souls, whatever it is, I don’t have to know, let it clear out our minds and give us ultimate peace, let it be like a mother’s womb months after a child’s conceived, relief overcoming our grief and despair like drowning, at the bottom of the Atlantic, and your father appearing, offering you air.

 

There is no sun that doesn’t burn your eyes, just like there is no man that doesn’t intimately muse over his own imminent demise, like flies swirling and buzzing life is nothing more than a collection of humming, the strings of the violin play in all of our souls until we give up and we let the beauty melt like spring snow, for then we are cold our hearth is empty of coals and we breathe cold air in through the holes in our souls.

 

Hate me for my poetry, despise me for my humanity, crucify me for my sanity you regard as insanity, I wish for a boat and the sun and wispy clouds, to live in that image, to live without doubt, to live is to suffer is to clutch burden is to resist selling yourself to the impatient screaming merchants, so take it and burn it and collect all the ashes and replace it with your beating hearts gentle, rhythmic lashes.

 

Once I thought, and then I was doomed by now all I have is to write poetry to you, so read this and weep or read this and spit, enough cruelty has made me immune to the critics, the liars their tricks, I just want a place to go where I won’t bleed from multiple needle pricks.

 

A sad fate, or a happy destined life, one in the same, a thousand different endings from just one mother, a baby is born every time a poem is mourned, so exhume me from my stillness and take me away to the solemn towers and the bells ringing for me through storms, just make sure I don’t die alone without warmth.

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