the thing about getting older is you're less inclined to fit
the thing about being a cog is that you must
we are all pieces of wood awaiting the flame
and you're only saved if nobody knows your name.
Did Faustus have such quibbling with strife?
To not embrace his nature; trust his life?
Did Marlowe conspire
before the fall
to fuck off and retire?
I do not know the answer,
but the question raised my ire.
I am a pair of scrabbling claws.
A note played in sequence or not at all.
A seed that grows when all else is to fall.
I am a pair of disquieting noises,
I am a pair of talons poised
to gut you unaware
I am, We are, and I am not uncertain.
I do not know what lies beyond the curtain.
Much has been survived as mystery.
I do not know, and that much leaves me screwed,
no attitude, or being rude,
or potential to express a faculty.
Who knows?
Who will ever know?
Who will have the certainty under sea and sky
look my misapprehended flesh in the eye and say
'No,
You were Wrong,
This Is Not The Way'.
There is a myriad of them, and they commit sin
Every single day,
in every single way.
But I will not bend.
I will not bow.
I will be a force for words, and for the flow,
and I will wield together words and voice of deadly force,
and all who get too close will say the light is much too coarse,
and I flare unrefined.
I will not bend.
This will not end.
I will stay the course.
And should it prove that nothing has remorse,
and all that stunts me under blood and bone,
and all that I chase in the cups of cones,
will leave this thirst unslaked?
The worst is knowing nothing can be started,
And knowing that those words are lies with stakes,
and should I pay? the words will float away
and leave my flesh a smoking ruin
in the shadow of the newly shadowed day.
