Suicide

He had some level of depression

I always sensed he had too much comprehension

Made too much sense

Of this unfair world’s pretence

Irony – There Could Literally Be Smoke

We are on the verge of curing every condition known to man

Just as we poison the planet on which we stand

No one sees the cosmic joke

Could-have-beens, what should-have-beens,

All up in smoke.

Who Do You Think Of?

Who was it who taught you about love?

Who was it who taught you love

had any sort of restrictions,

or clauses,

traditional, or otherwise?

Who tells you how,

or who,

to love?

The men

who you meet,

those sparkling eyes,

those smiles on the street.

This is how it is done, he says

watch close.

I’ll show you

not tell you,

so, you see

for yourself.

It is a learned

condition.

It always has been,

not heard, seen.

Death

An empty shell, a husk,

Rebooted back to manufacture’s specifications.

Glass, where soft lens used to be,

Pallid complexion, where there was once a smile.

Cold, where there was once warmth,

A soul departed.

To where, some question?

To nowhere, such vexation!

There must be something else, they bray?

No. That’s all. Icksnay.

Nix the next life hearsay.

Bus Station

Bus stations are always lonely places

The wind always blows through them

No matter how modern they are,

Or how well designed.

The promise of somewhere,

That is not here,

Makes us all sad

Not to have left already