It may be a matter of guilt.
It may be made manifest
In the atoms of one’s own chemistry.
It may lie in the stealing hands of death,
The plundering fingers of rape or theft,
The wolfish fangs of poverty.

It may hide in a house of broken dreams,
In some dreadful prison or stark captivity.
It may only be the loneliness
Or the fear that something cold and dark
Lingers in the here and now or
Comets from the great beyond,
A portend of impending doom,
An end to life and everything!

The skies may stir great storms of lust,
The dust, to make us weep mortality,
The seas may speak of hopelessness,
The fire to spark premeditation,
The plotting of some evil deed.

So much gore in self-destruction!
So little pity in insanity!
Once the wind has changed direction,
It’s tough to regain one’s humanity.

Woe is me!

Will it be the darkness,
With its writhing serpent bite?
Will it be the daylight with its ever-crushing needs?
Will it be the words that stir the soul to madness,
Or the silence,
That brings us to our knees?



Michael S. True
8-01-13