two voices

1st

 

Let them go, won’t you! Listen, must you suffer,

poor devil, worm; trampled on! The madmen

pound your door. Open the door.

 

You uncluttered your room on the top floor,

all but bare – a bed, a few simple things; violets

on the window sill; and the hollow notes you sang

to the paltry strum of six golden strings.

 

Here, it’s possible to think and think not,

of nothing, to the hum of the first fly

in spring; the mind’s eye beholds light

wings, the palm of trees and leaves. We

 

recover, companions in a room

of beautiful things; the river green

in summer, we swim; and gather

pebbles, slipped in the pastel

bowl that adorns your little room.

 

Boy, those wounds hurt still like real

cuts, not deep enough. To hell with it,

and them: nothing they have done

can discredit you. True, the devil

in your blood’s in ruins. Let him

off; cut, and fear not

other-worldly consequences.

 

Man has invented morals – for good,

for better living. To banish the darkness.

 

2^nd

 

Was your soul, then,

not pierced? True,

 

you’re what you do;

but what others

have done to you…

that too.

 

My way is

straight, hard; one

takes it to heart, not

forget, forgive!

no matter what,

because. One can’t.

 

Could you take the wide

path eyes shut, strut,

or shrug, hum, meditate,

man why not!

 

flop.

But all your life

is light

and shadow,

 

John.

Hold on

 

to the goodness

by which we live,

 

no mere

convenience;

 

and bear the cross

of all the hurts

that were given unto thee.

 

Remember.