The Exact Middle
My feet are different weights, much like my arms
and the two sides of my head.
The pressures and stresses of my pedestrian life
are redistributed in lead across my form.
So, I am lopsided and misshapen,
if I am truly a miracle creation,
why have I been built like an old decrepit home?
I will spit in vulgar Latin at the fates
who seem to use me as a buoy
to tie off broken wooden boats on.
But now my arms – posts are falling over
with the splintered vessels and lost aspirations.
How should I keep them all afloat?
When I, myself, am almost
ready to drown?
Wishbone
Standing proud and tall
As the battlefield grows dimmer
You cannot call
Yourself a winner
Once you have beat,
Fought, killed, and maimed
You have lost too much humanity
To stand before your god without shame
Solider boy,
Your cause is dead
So, answer me
This riddle:
Who is victorious,
If everyone is immoral?
The wishbone cracked straight
Down the middle
After the afterlife
After the ending
The final closure
The release and completion
Life and death depleted
Religion becomes obsolete
After the afterlife
For then we’re all one
A part of the earth, apart from our mortal runs
Cohesion and purebred peace
Lives only with the dead
If once six feet under, we decompose without wars left to fight,
Shouldn’t we all step into the light?
Author’s Note:
The rain and the clouds last December triggered many a musing on religion and sin, right and wrong, life and death. These are poems that, when written, I would’ve never let see the light of day. I share them in confidentiality with the world and hope you will treat my words kindly.