PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Romantic sorts, who believe in God, have told me much
of what's deserved and delivered to whom, and why.
Their choices, their goings: all documented by
that sense of oncoming, impending, doom or delight.
Ignoring indications and every ounce of sense
developed by we, humanity, in the dawn of consciousness;
they'll insist I'll have my day, perfect and serene,
and feel their words to be enough to set my "soul" at ease.
I look up and see the sky, sans Kingdom made for kings,
nor is there reflection of eyes so eerily like my own.
I look down and see the ground, and feel no risen heat,
and hear no red behemoth with his ass upon a throne.

This is no world I would have chosen.
There's little made that's worth its price, few who care
and fewer still that choose to do what's best for anybody, anywhere.
I fear the end's uncertainty and its tendency to hurt,
but I cannot help but wish for it, if only to escape.
And I'd be blameless if you could, with "love" or with nothing
rise to meet, and beat me to death.
Delirious and bloodied, before I leave and go,
I might just half-hallucinate a paradise that wants me:
gates that open on my behalf,
a breeze blown by benevolence,
and the ghost of our humanity, as disappointed as I am.