Life can be cruel, false as a faithless wife —
I know something of peace, something of strife,
and something of pain, but mostly dark hate
that gnaws within myself, poisons my life
like bitter, fevered lovers hurling plate
after plate in a war that won't abate
while inner children hide with shattered eyes
that dim like dying ash upon a grate.
The past is gone, yet falls from crying skies
that sweep across the land like rumoured lies.
It lies upon the land like frozen sod
that pinions screaming corpses, chokes their cries.
You rail against your fate, against a god
that bestows His grace with a poisoned rod,
but I've not the same comfort, only dread
that maybe words will fail and die like God --
perhaps, I'm really wrong and lying dead,
but sometimes truth's a lie within my head.
But who is real, the one I fear, my wife,
or else the one who lies on algid bed.