Thursday, February 26, 2009

The Last Word

Where do you suppose
the urge for self-immolation
comes from?

An inability to rest upon laurels
An unquenchable itch
to pick at scabs
A quest for absolutes
A final piercing 
sharp tongues poised
A bullet to the head
“Make sure he’s dead!”

All hands upon the oars
that push us round
and round

Who can tell mutton
from goats not sheep
the bespoken
from the coveted
the forgiven
from the merely guilty
Looks deceive

All lips pursed to speak
cacophony of reason
and bunk
Infinity of syllables
Inanity of yearning 
for the last word

1 comment:

Laurie Gudim and Rosean Amaral said...

Ah yes. Humility leaves one alive at the end of the day. But who hasn't scratched a scab and found the yearning for the last word!