Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Labors of Nada

Where is my hatred now?
Does it pervade my own infidelities
Or do I harangue the specters
Of others treachery?
Do I dare to dance on gilded threads
Of shapely rage, framed in rhyme,
Or do I turn my vaunted hand of trivia
Towards a just and proper end?

I should reserve my hatred
For what I have become
And not chastise what I deserve.
I should conduct my contempt
Through proper channels
Sweeping into the swill
The foundations of a poisoned life.
I must aspire to cloak my heart
In a new-found clarity
That rejects the obscure glow of wrath
That powered a personal iconography
Justified in my eyes.

But instead, I will dither at altars of song
And forestall all life,
A yeoman working at the labors of nada.

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