There Are Some
I think there are some
who insulate their walls
with a bulletproof misery
and call it home
Who turn on heel and run
from this or that, here or
there, that they may not reap
what they have sown.
Perched behind the curtain
to await fire and bloodshed,
only to sneak a peek and see
themselves inside the glass
Easier to look away and
say, “Not I, not I, you
know not I, shall ever be
the faceless little mass.”
Better to empty the vase
before the petals fall, to wash
the still-green leaves right out
with anti-septic soap.
Neater to bookmark fate and
store it (“Later,” you say, “Not ever.”)
To wash the fertile dreams right out
with anti-septic hope
Safer to wear the gloves,
never risk the bite of frost
and ice that grip the flesh afresh
(Condenses in a sigh)
Yes, I shudder to think that there
are those who would sink so low.
Indeed, I shudder to think that one
of them was I.