the hearts of angels and the instincts of toads

whisky,
however risky,
gives bourbon
its proof:
sublime, sipped slow,
it both reminds
and forgets
wasted youth;

if you want truth,
go find a history book,
these lines are only
a single look
at what has passed,
what did not get
gassed
at Auschvitz,
or Chosin,
or Baghdad;

slip on by,
you of the weak knee,
of the ready, erstwhile
apology,
since here you will find none:
this is Us, laid bare,
curses and blessings
all wrapped up into one,
foibles and follies,
and baby girls dressed up
like porcelain dollies,
and men made to stand tall
and die,
when they would rather have
simply laid with their women,
who still cry
for love taken from them;

oh pity, and reverence,
and all that they pretend,
will not accompany any one of us,
when we meet our end;
not goodness, nor mercy,
nor vile intent,
will capture our rapture
or forgive us our souls lent
to lust for power or
greed or any other base seed
that caused us to follow
and never to lead;

hindsight is well
acknowledged in Hell,
as it shows the sufferer
where avoidance
would have served him
to swell;

all of us, consumed,
on an enormous funeral pyre,
stripped of thought,
mystery, and desire;

we stand bleak,
unadorned, naked in soul,
left to seek, blind,
one last roll
of the eternal dice,
which garners nothing;

too much, though,
for some simple lines,
too much history,
for too little time;
let it stand, then,
however incomplete:
that what swallows us whole now,
is the result of our own feat;

we stand at eternity's solemn crossroads,
with hearts of angels,
and instincts of toads.



June 4, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.