This isn’t the greatest story ever told,
more like a garbage truck of bad luck,
with sad black moments sewn in
a swerving line threaded together
till the end of time
where we will find
the hive minds
dining on swollen swine
sipping blood red wine from the vine,
the one called the treasure of the golden sun,
the one for which we crawled and scrawled
useless scribbles of noisy dribble that dripped down
our sad clown faces, taking bits of chipped paint
and exposing our scarred flesh to the fearful crowed.

It is the way of the dead to lay in their bed
as the red wet stain spreads on wrinkled sheets,
as they excrete the remnants of feces,
dying to meet these
sick rotting expectations,
nature’s exploitation of our degenerating state of decay.

At the end of our life we donate this great feast of flesh
to the earth where we are laid to rest.
This is not some sort of sweet slumber
but how we count to the number
which equals nothing.

The unknown equation that some have guessed
while the fearful rest hang back depressed and obsessed
with buying into the very best excuses
to not do the math that help us see through
the illusion of immortality.

A shadow paints the moon,
a minor fleck falls from the lens of the telescope
to let us know the true scope.
I get by, but others fail to cope
with all that the madness of truth implies.

We will all die, and all the flowery words
cannot cover the stench of **** stained drawers
of unopened doors that lead to an infinite world
of what ifs.

The cosmos never forgets
because it never knew one inch of us
and gave the same measurement
of caring intent about our meaningless existence.