Propositions about
the afterlife are futile.

Do you believe in God,
heaven, clouds, harps and cherubs?

And then you die and discover
that you must lead many more lives
searching for perfection.

Do you believe in the Bardo,
in reincarnation, in the sweet
possibilities of getting it right?

And then you die and find yourself
on a fluffy cloud surrounded by
annoying cherubs whose harps are incessant.

Or will you become a mute patch of earth,
that is wet and dry and favored by worms.

I have closed the eyes of the dead
and all I can tell you is they were dead.

What happens after is futile surmise.

You believe or you don't.

But believing is not knowing.

And when you know, you will not say.

~mce

You say that I
Am a work of art

And I'll believe you
Because you know what?

That picture you drew
At three,
Where you can't tell if that blue blob
Is an elephant,
Your grandma,
Or just a blue blob

*That's art too

I’d like to love again
Days gone by in a
Conceptual state of mind
Realism my best friend
And worst enemy

I’d like to love again
Evenings pass by in a
Manic state of mind
Memories a close treasure
And haunting burden

I’d like to love again
Years pass by in a
Callous state of mind
Ethos my arduous procurement
And grossly arduous to sustain