Untitled Poem #5

It was a myth, man’s making,
Yet once, it was a religion.
Now, I am surrounded by ghosts,
Yet once, they were the living.

If a choice, then this will be worse,
There is nothing made from nothingness.
Yet more comfort than the daily giving,
What does this say of life’s long blessing.

He took his pills and threw them up,
His arms and thighs he scratched and cut;
Always up, and never down,
Life’s bride without a wedding gown.

A question denied of an answer,
Carcinogen less a cancer;
To a bonfire they strapped a martyr,
Death does not need a dancing partner.

I bandaged your scars with forgetfulness,
I emptied your stomach and beat your chest.
To life at last you had me receptive,
And the ghosts had me cast as Mr Deceptive.

Know this ghosts, I am not defrauding life,
That was your palpably poisoned decision;
I opened your wound, distaste was rife,
Ink flows from my self incision.

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