I did not die from a drive-by shot;
I did not die in a war of evil against good.
I did not die doing deeds whose saints
win rightful awe. I did not die
with faith in my fingers and thumbs.
I died daily from a raging wordthat eats the brain like an unseen bug.
I flew in fantasy to unreal lands
where rancor falls from the sky
and cakes the sand; desolate and alone,
I faded to zero from fullness and ennui:
I learned to earn more of what
you should not spend or invest,
and I died bullied by abundance,
dependence without fill.
I knew no father with wise words
or soft embrace that shoos away
the monster in the dark. I contrived
the scary mask just to bribe the pang
that would not let me finally die.
I corrupted life with tender
borrowed from another’s purse.
I knew the animal fear, the death
grip on the throat, the throes that sculpt
the leer of deceit and absurd pride,
but I lost the dread that comes with conscience,
the brave naivete that does not fool itself;
so I did not love myself or my enemy,
or seek the ordeal where the just face
is born and good is pure and one.
On a day like any other, from the desert
of strip malls and pay as you go pie in the sky
a honeyed word began to sound.
Then the savior arose in the guise of a thief
and stripped me bare and robbed me blind.
And then I died to all that is and is not.
My audio recording of In the land of never to be... chirb.it/PDM7zs.
(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.