Not Least, By ‘I’

 

     It is only me after all,

there are none other residents I know

  live here, none and I guess;-

      ‘this one stays silent…...again!’

 

     Hyperion reminds us of the longevity

  we can sometimes labour, (all life),

   and then by the time the final passage,

    you no longer remember the basis of tale,

      the predicate to that point of

                  ‘relief?’

 

   referencing Keats now,

    I am lost and regretful that here,

     where none live but I,

       why did I not venture the hemlock -

          more than the grog??

 

     I could ask a neighbour,

but within worlds of paradoxic mirth

I have none surrounding this cheaply built flat,

   If I live a country mile from here, as in

  the statement above,

     my neighbour would be close

       enough and empath enough,

           to shed, meaning???

 

     I am nigh on three score years and

still I await the meaning of life to

  bestow upon me the reasons for my pain,

   the reasons for all ill and woe

    issued vehemently by authorities

     laughing at ‘our’ kettled status of being,

      as lustfully they state;-

                 ‘that must hurt,’ (and with gleeful adoration).

 

   I guess you know now just how silent I be,

as this one too - remains the same and same and same,

  sometimes the pain is analytical and sometimes

   the pain be so creative but,

    the brain could freeze nonetheless,-

     for what remains is a very solemn

      scream where tears are violently

        gated behind ducts that require

         a greater circumference that

           allows the flooding rights of passage

             beyond what they say, be a

                                 ‘valid life experience!’

 

     There is no chance though,

  for the doctors were told not to fit

    my heart with much needed stents,

      let alone the tear ducts that testify

        this disgusting persecution

          while ‘they,’ deny all acts of murder

            as laughing at the corpse upon the slab,

              their cannibal out take still remains a secret curtain call.

 

     I could act as if I know ‘why this life?’

    but still, all I want to do, is tired,

     all I want to be, is mired,

       all I am and all I have seen,

         wants none of recollection now and only this to say;-

           I want, to die,

              I want to die, and forever be forgotten.

 

 

Michael J Waite 8th February 2025.