Letter to Myself
what does
it take for you to finally, finally, finally
even
notice the spiritual civil war that is raging on
inside
all and every single human soul?
and would
not that be such an artwork,
so
destructive, so beautiful, so hopeful,
just we
recognized its buzzing and burning below
the
thresholds of routine, tedium and dullness?
a length
of days you shall not acquire;
a
fortitude of spirit, but an ideal in your heart;
nerve,
guts, gallantry... spectres haunting your house!
the gaze
of a hero you have not,
but on
your back, burning, as you turn from challenges!
you shall
be led to an abyss of fire
and you shall be contained therein
until but coal and shame remain there
down.
like a maid brings cloth to the river
you
brought the golden mystery
to a creek of waste and pollution
as to let it rinse, wash therein!
but what soiled holy silk
can be cleansed with filth-water?
encased into the stone of history you are
as an immortal pig amongst men:
immortal, yes, but what pork
does not rot sour in infinity?
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