The Fife

 
A cosmic hoax
With cruel jokes
Played out in tortured ways,
Preemptive strokes
On startled folks
The solemn piper plays?

Foreboding gloom,
Impending doom
Antecede locution;
What hands bestow
Must dirt forego
Prior to ablution.

Why so intense
With this pretense
That all is well with you?
Proudly unique,
Afraid to speak
The side unseen but true?

A bed of nails
By shame impales
A thousand guilty pricks,
With no relief
From ruthless grief...
Surcease in Time's last ticks.

Man's wretched pain,
Its baleful strain
Resounds throughout the heart,
Persistent voice
That brooks no choice,
Till silence plays its part.


--Fr. Veni di Morte

 

 

copyright 1999, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved