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CROSSING ALL LINES
By Quentin Smith
Black rain guzzles down outside the window,
My headless thoughts are crushed against the wall,
My back and my life throb like an exhausted heart,
The roots of hell are twisted in my soul—
My bones are turning on spits over the fire
Of lethargic pain swirling slowly in my blood.
I will not drown my burning crimson in water
With a cry of pain and rage
Flung to the frightened sky.
I will not protest, because there is no one or no thing
To whom or to which I could protest.
I can only reject everything.
I reject pessimism for it’s optimistic
Belief that there exists a meaning, even though
This meaning has no hope of being attained.
I reject the nihilists because for some reason
They still care to move, and incomprehensibly
Acquire a zestful energy that they use to run
Randomly about the unmarked desert of their lives.
I would even reject my rejections,
If rejections were worth rejecting
Or even being attended to at all.
Nothing is worth doing,
Not even the minimal effort
Of forming a red entryway
Into my cerebrum by the enormous momentum
Of a bronze, shiny, magnum shell.
Written 1973 and 2002 |