Dead poets hang
from shrunken trees:
a pocket full of posies,
singing dead songs,
lyrical flames ignite
Obsolete language from
skull faces, pensive troubadours:
satchels with free verse,
in a universe
devoid of logic
Why do you fear death when
you’ve died so many times before?
It was new once and it scared you,
an awful boom and tingling sensation
up your spine, lights dimmed,
an explosion of impossible colors
tasting like metal and smelling of wood,
leaving you breathless
I search for certainty
my mind processes current events like a calculator,
seeking clarity – aren’t we all?
But once things settle down, the lake becomes still
in the moonlight
things change, get strange
Big Foot does a belly-flop in the cold water
scares the children away
The only thing I know for certain
is that life is constant change
I must cope with uncertainty.
(Photo by Jackson Hendry on Unsplash)
After reading Franz Kafka’s complete short stories last year, I was determined to read the three novels that were published posthumously. I find Kafka to be a tremendously interesting writer and literary figure, and after reading most of his work, the recurrent themes became evident.
The people in this apartment complex are so nice!
They smile, ask how I’m doing
I can tell they mean it by their bright eyes,
gentle body language, the way they speak of
this complex as a community.
But why does it seem so strange?
Behind these pearly-white smiles,
are they planning my demise?