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
Man has invented morals – for good,
for better living. To banish the darkness.
Was your soul, then,
not pierced? True,
you’re what you do;
but what others
have done to you…
My way is
straight, hard; one
takes it to heart, not
no matter what,
because. One can’t.
Could you take the wide
path eyes shut, strut,
or shrug, hum, meditate,
man why not!
But all your life
to the goodness
by which we live,
and bear the cross
of all the hurts
that were given unto thee.