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Our Father, who warned you

Contributed by drewgreeno on Friday, 24th March 2006 @ 09:45:28 AM in AEST
Topic: dedicatedpoems

There is nothing more terrible than
death,
one man spoke to another.

The latter could not agree,
The idea of death
can be softened,
the pain lessened and summarized
with words such as
rest
or
Heaven.

But the fact of death:
the stink of dying
is much earlier than the last sound of
breath.
It is the sharp edge
of gravel
as one drags his face
on top of road like a wheel
from house to home,
searching for himself.

It is the blind man,
having crashed into a wall
and split in two.
He stands up
and walks away,
not knowing he has left
half of
himself behind
smeared between the crevice
of brick.

Was it his death when
he entered that wall,
or did his life end when
his reflection forgot the mirror,
when his image left leaving only
shadows, vague memories?

When a dead man walks it is a question
almost as complicated as who
woke you this morning who pulled you out of
your nightmare of ice and screams.

When he asks, in his glacier tongue,
why the crowd weeps for him
as he stands watching.

Life was supposed to
let go
but the blind fools fingers
were crooked and tangled
in Gods hands.

Is he left hanging
or perhaps believing in existence?

His friends hope, asking
for peace, while sweat
spills over his back,
staining his shirt.
And tears,
tears miss his eyes
and blister his lips raw.

How does he speak
and to whom
when the sound of no wind
no breath
becomes too much?

So I must answer you,
yes, death is a terrible thing.
But far worse, and if anything
far more terrible, is losing breath
before breath loses you.
The worst case is dying
in life.
Ambivalence is always careful
not to mistake itself for a

dream.

//Ae
5.3.1995

Copyright © drewgreeno ... [ 2006-03-24 09:45:28]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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