now i pretend to understand nero
fiddling while rome
burned to the ground.
what are the choices after all,
run here or there to
witness what,
do what,
say what to instigate
change in minds locked within
hate, so
broken, so
fearful of being forgotten.
.
they will be seen but
then, well, they will be well forgotten,
(as destruction eventually is)
only set aside as humanity’s shame.
.
that is the work of time.
.
here I am.
what shall i do, shout with fruitless
grief, furious that destruction is
so easy, creation slow and
too fragile to bear the violence
of vicious fear …
we who have seen end
states of destruction, war
zones, lost nations, we know
yet will never
– never –
convince those who have not
known of the foul scent of
burnt morals, rotting ethics.
.
we will not convince those
who think they long to feel the pull
of a trigger that the feel
of kindness is deeper and
lasting.
well set in bombastic
righteousness and brute
stupidity: how they long to be
hero destroyer, thousand
yard stare presuming a corner on
power over another as truth.
.
they do not know,
do not know that they
do not want the inevitable haunting,
the consequence, the
longing for forgiveness that will be
unavailable
from themselves, never mind another.
.
they do not want what they
think they want. there is nothing
to cherish from within an internal
wasteland.
.
no.
so how would my
wringing hands, turning over
themselves, turn minds over.
that’s why –
.
– that’s why
i would pick up that fiddle.
to feed the burning world
every beauty,
futile as it may seem.
just to feed the
world every beauty
in the face of useless destruction,
seeding the new world
.
seeding the new world with
the end truth of beauty.
orphan poems 