I'll Not be Obedient to Life

Life, your weight,
your hammer strokes
upon my body and my mind,
your whips and scorns of time
is all too much for me to bear.
 
If there’s a purpose
in your hammerings
it is not clear.
No matter how I search for it
I’m left insatiate.
 
And so I ken
along with scores and scores
of other men
whose pain that you’ve been witness to
(if not its cause),
whose wit
you’ve smothered and destroyed,
whose death cries
you have all to often wrung
from them
whose blood you’ve drunk
for years and years on end,
 
you are a house of dung.

So why should I
become obedient to you?