Paradise in the Aftermath

Don’t ask me about love.

Don’t ask me what it’s like to be

one and one

with another,

because I don’t remember.

All I have are memories

of enemies.


Don’t ask me what it is to live.

Don’t ask me what it’s like to taste life.

To take in to yourself

all of creation.

Through the eyes, the nose, the mouth

and through the skin;

that’s where the end begins.


I have never been so lost

that I have had to follow.

A confining structure is a prison,

under any other name,

would still confine my mind

and render me a derelict,

for love and life

are terms I am comfortable defining

on my own.


With Fortune’s grinning rictus

peeling back to mock me,

I have scarred my heart

and pierced my veins

in search of truth and beauty.

But only struck a nerve

and caused viral infections

that still defined me more

than words in old books,

written by dead men.


Maybe I’ve made it complicated?

Maybe my answer should have been

a quiet, willing acceptance

of my social caste,

my lot,

my Joie de Vivre.


Don’t let me speak on love;

for we are strangers.

I’ve come too far now

to admit I’m wrong.

Don’t ask me about life

and how to live it;

I’ve avoided it for so long,

that I’ve missed the point

and wandered off the path,

finding paradise in the aftermath.


Love in life is achieved by trying.


HG – 2016

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