The Inscribed Bones of Being (and Having Been)

 

Scrimshaw
              etched on mortal bones
          of all those who ceased
     to exist by
the ways of their own minds, of
      their own
             doing.                     A stroll, so to speak,
                                             down suicide row, all
                                                  the juries and
                                              judges set in place,
                                                  ( in tact, in fact),
                                           readying their sentences,
                                           to  narrowing views,
calling all who sit to stand
wit fake, shallow admiration.
But I, as one, (of many), see
no reason to reanimate such
postures.
                                                The carving, the etching,
                                                 of encoded, mortal-bone
                                                 inscriptions, takes us a long
                                                 way    forward to death,
                                                ~ and there she lay, so dead
as death could possibly be,
bringing rise to all the stupidity
that I have ever been. The failed
father, the failed heart.       And
then, the brilliance that she could
not give herself enough time to meet.

                                     This love, this loss, this grief,
                                      this Life is so consumptively
                                                    painful. and painful.
                                       and painful in This Life, where
                                        you'll never walk and breathe,
                                        and see and speak
                                                                               again.

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