Not the brightest of men, I have walked into walls, Chasing pleasant illusions, Elusive pleasures
But even I, Tiny bean brain that I may be, Have enough sense To stand back from the flames, To stay clear of fires that Rage beyond my control
Red, blustery, passionate, These rueful waves of the sun Crackle against the marbled rings Of Kronos’ cold steel slave rings
The hard master yields nothing easily
I can summon enough sense To feed myself when my bones Become brittle with hunger
But I cannot make a meal Out of the dust and dry reeds Of another’s feverish pangs
There is no sustenance in another’s Temporary fits of dissatisfied craving, The ghoulish haunting caused by Dwelling in the discontent of A desiccated shell, which they are Reluctant to abandon
When war swings its broadsword At the throat of its enemy with full vigor
And the enemy, Equally skilled in the art of slaughter, Parries with a great sword In just the knick of time, At a perfect right angle, There will inevitably come A clanging sound most awful
Sparks will pour off steel weaponry Sweat and cruel words will fly, And the thirst of demons is slaked With someone’s blood
The only question is, “Who’s blood?”
The answer is always the name of Someone stupid enough To stand too close to the fray
Such a someone does not Keep their name very long
The surgical procedures Of iron, hatred, and discontent Removes the name like a tumor, Placing it in a small wooden box and Burying it in the yard, like a dead bird, A former family pet who Gave up the ghost
Except, that the bird was well-loved, and Grieved for after its passing
The name of the fool who stands Between plumes of martial fire And the incontinence of the unhappy Is quite unceremoniously Peeled from the imbecile’s face and Dropped in a shallow grave With all the careful consideration A person observes when tossing A banana peel into the garbage
A miserly liver of life, Who cherishes comfort above all else, Will angrily slit the throat Of one who offers them a cup of wine, When the skinflint is busy Swearing to the deliciousness Of the sand in their parched throat
A plate of fresh fruit and venison Is smacked hastily from the hand, When offered to the prisoner Who enthusiastically requests A second helping of gravel and worms
No, it is far wiser to step back
Stay clear of one who is firmly committed To the cause of consistency, Merely for convenience’s sake
Let the dice, lightning bolts, and swords Fall where they may; So long as it is not upon your neck
Author’s Note: Yesterday, I learned that someone passed away in my apartment building (presumably within a day or so of when I heard about it). I had never met them and they hadn’t been living here long at all. Their death was apparently not unexpected; I was told that they were in poor health before they ever arrived here.
The weird thing is, they lived in the apartment right below mine. But stranger still, I had occupied that apartment myself, up until just a few months ago. When my current unit became available, I took the opportunity to move because it’s quieter on the top floor. While I don’t think I ever met the tenant, it was a brisk reminder that death is never far away.
Death is right under your feet But try to put it out of your mind There are chores to do and Demands to meet So, try putting it out of your mind
Death is coming up behind you It is wise to not make a stink of it Since you cannot stop it, and There’s nothing you can do, It’s best to try and not think of it
There beside you, Death hovers I suggest you pretend not to notice It will pounce on nervousness, Any weakness it discovers, So, just casually appear not to notice
It may approach you from any angle You are bold, but Death is much bolder You can tell it’s there by the cold, stale air That envelopes your throat to strangle Death patiently perches on your shoulder
Kevin Trent Boswell 