David Goesop

David Goesop Nov 2016

Vases with flowers on countertops-
No good to those who wish for eternity,
or easy appreciation.

There is pruning, watering, replacement.
There are dead petals strewn among the granite,
drooping dying faces bending into gravity.

Beauty lasted only for a second and,
all that was left behind were holes in the ground.
Those roses left for dead.
Unnourished for but a moment.

Uncherished from muddled perception.
Like all the plastic primrose-
And artificial daises held up to mirrors,
Empty when it needed light.

It was not the lesser hand that took it,
and promised it forever,
but lack of understanding,
the message caught in friction.

Empty when it needed light.
Clipped from its roots before it had a chance to sing.

David Goesop Jul 2016

Oh Road! Oh Life!

Highways and intersections
This is your life passing by
One agonizing moment at a time

Striving to go faster
To go further

You'll probably make it a long ways ignoring the road signs
Or looking in the rear view mirror

Pushing for just one more mile
One more day

And yet

One night in the freezing rain I find myself alone on a crowded highway
Bustling with engines and pistons

And for a second I shut my eyes and push the pedal to the floor
Drifting away towards enlightenment

I float in empty space
Going left
Or right

Into trees and ditches
Or maybe drivers by my side

And I'm sure that going fast enough
And on busy streets
Such as these

You could technically drive like this for the rest of your life

In bliss
And peace
And freedom

But I open my eyes to the blinding light
And put my foot through the floor
To push for one more mile
For one more day

And so the great race goes on
And you may contribute but a single death

David Goesop Jul 2016

In His Head

The Flatline

I see a man lay on sheets of sickly white
Unconscious to his own existence
Alone and all but gone
A shell of what had been

I can't help but notice
That a single red line etching itself away
On an endless black screen to his left
Is the only thing that separates him from the absence of life

A clock behind him determines his existence
Regulating the time
In which another patient
Will someday take his place
Slowly turning, always counting
Never telling when

An apathetic beep seems to tick away each moment
Tormenting his existence
While the remnant of his life
Continues its rhythmic pattern
Half heartedly to say the least

A fan slowly spins above his head
Always appearing to be slowing down
But never really stopping
Just hanging on
As though it really makes a difference
To exist between life and death

A flatline is all that he would ask for
If only he could speak

— The End —