Monday, June 1, 2020

Michael T. Smith writes

Pink: A poem on death

To the architect of empty spaces, who
tears a lung saying “there must be more than this”
while platitudes collect like old friends
standing in the center of two opinions,

Hear not what we say, but
only what we meant to say -- those dead words
buried in the dirt mound of repression,
upon which no tombstone can be placed,

A sacrifice to the false idols of the past, such
that we may live, such that --
            [here, a stopped breath] –
we don’t even have to think about saying what we want.

Instead, speaking with voices on loan,
we know the world can only spin in one direction.
And that “don’t” is but a word of perspective,
which all of us get on our knees to hear.

For in this temple to nihilism,
we are each of us heathens,
            who would preach what we practice,
only if to practice what we preach.

O, Goddess of Anonymity, hear us now,
speak a theme about being open with oneself.
We have stretch marks on the pregnancy of a thought,
but what does it all matter if there’s nothing more.

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