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
faith
and bunk
Infinity of syllables
chiaroscuro
Inanity of yearning
for the last word
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1 comment:
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!
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