We weren't built for this

There are nights when I’ll sit and stare dully,
Fully aware at the ridiculousness of it all.
To see so clearly in the dark the way we all
Have fallen.
Our houses in disrepair and the yards full
Of leaves and bits of paper. Shudders loose
From the siding, roof caving in, roof crashing in.
There’s a terrible finality to it all, I think, as dully
I count the cracks in the wall. We are afraid of the
Wrong things. We go through great pains to explain
Away, and exonerate ourselves of wrong doing.
But, in the end it won’t matter because when
Our time is up it’s up. And that is that.
Our soul will float to the Cosmos because God
Won’t have us. The Devil will not have us either.
Neither wanting to pick through the leavings.
So, finally, we’ll reach the stars and maybe see
Where it all began but, we’ll get bored
Of that as well. Bored of mystery. Bored of intrigue.
Just bored. But silent. Graveyard silent. Silent
Like a tombstone.

Aimless vagabonds in space adrift in the thickness
We’ll bask in the ever-present vigilance of the Sun
Dance with the satellites. Eat the moon. Pass
Over Jupiter and the Rings of Saturn. Battered
Down one and all.
I am thinking now on the Columbia and all
The horrid things man has died for. All the
Dreams man has strived for. Helen’s face
Launched a thousand ships. We’ve died for land
And love. Love and land. But my hand
Is clean of blood. I am thinking of the Columbia
And how it’s never as romantic to die for science
The way it is to die for God, or love or the love
Of God. We’ll die on the job or in a car crash
On the way to our job. We’ll die on our couches
Crouched and ready but not really ready at all.
And I’m staring pathetic eyes on a wall thinking
On the Columbia disintegrating over Texas skies
And how all the poetry in the world cannot save us.
No matter how hard one tries. All the great topics
Have been beaten to death over and over by writers past:
Love, God, Life, Death and Undeath, binge drinking, and
Feeling alone in a room full of people.
I think I’m finished for the evening. There’s a singing
Bird outside reminding me it’s much too late. Or much too

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