the greatest sadness
is not in what is lost
but in what was never
had.

he likes forgetting
good things
bad things
because to him
it’s all bad
because it’s all
not good enough

he keeps himself away
like some secret
that could destroy
the world
and
you have to wonder
if he knows how silly
he sounds

he’s voiceless but
he loves to scream
enjoying the cacophony
because he doesn’t
believe he can make
music

he’ll show up dead probably
not in the ground, but somewhere
like a run-down apartment
or a happy family of four
and you’ll know because
he only frowns
between when the drink
hits his lips
and
when the drink
hits his mind
like sleeping gas

he’s not worried about it though
he says there’s nothing to be worried about
that you shouldn’t worry, that this is the way
that things are going to play out
no matter if he’s loved
if he’s hated
if he succeeds
or fails
if all his dreams come true
or all his nightmares

it’s time, he says,
to make peace with it
and if you would please
just leave him alone
to feel alive
without
guilt.

there stands one thousand foot stone walls
on both sides of me, rising into the ceiling
by curving softly like a dancer in motion,
and I walked across polished marble there
to stand before a throne decked in jewels,
and gold and other precious, material things,
but this seat was empty, completely devoid
of life, never having seen to its final purpose.

so I thought, as all mortals do when faced
with great chance, that I might be the end,
that I might be what this beautiful place
was destined to join and become whole,
that this was a sign, a message, a promise
from the will that works beyond the reach
of our eyes that I had found my meaning
just as this place found its calling as well.

this, I believe, is where the story becomes
hazy, for all that I remember is sitting there
for a long time, wondering at the opportunity
I had been given and could not hope to take.
for there stood the ancient kingdom all had
hoped to claim for themselves, and there
stood I, who realized all too late that man
could not hope to own anything but himself.

why does man
not realize his place
amongst the spinning
cogs of the universe?

why does man
not understand
that we, just like
everything else,
are one more
piece in a machine
with no other purpose
than to keep working?

why does man
not give up his fight
with the truth? or maybe,
a better question is,
why can’t he?

it feels like years
but it was just
hours ago
when I finally let the flame
burning in the pit
of my soul
free for the first time
for all to see
and I screamed
for the first time
for all to hear

smoke billowed from my mouth
and as they
looked in and saw
my throat all scars and burns
they were horrified
and shocked
at how bad
I had let it get

they tried to put it out
but they couldn’t know
that it had been put out
for a long while now
that the black clouds were all a shadow
of what had once been an all-consuming fire
that burned silently behind my eyes
charring everything that passed through
them before I could ever even know
if it was beautiful or not

but this could have all happened
to someone else with the same burnings
that go unnoticed, unfelt by most
because that’s how I remember it
the man talking on the telephone
was not me
and the world I exposed myself to
was not her

so was the fire revealed?
is it still a pile of ash?
are the embers put out?
am I finally free?

I could not tell you
even if I listened
very, very
closely

nothing has been fixed
the sun still sets
I still bleed
hot blood
from toxic wounds
cut by my loves
and
if even for a second
I thought I saw the sun
come back up a bit
it was only her trick
to leave me weakened
and bleeding still
as the wolves
came out
for the night

my muse drinks
in the afterlife
laughing at me
as I try to write
after he told me
till the day he died
that it’s already too late
if you’re trying