He said, "I'll show you fear in a hand full of dry cement."
What did he mean? I couldn't understand him - what he meant.
"All poetry is flawed. Each poem is an epitaph."
He had a grin upon his face. Why did he start to laugh?
I saw him walking in the wind. He said, "Bonjour, mon frère."
But how could I respond, a robot falling through the air?
I cried out in despair, "Your words are meaningless, and less.
I'll show you concrete in the bright blue birds of happiness."
And then his shadow, long and gaunt, moved on beyond the grave.
The sentence had been passed. I sighed. There was no more to save.
Where shall I go
when the race is over?
Won or lost doesn't change a thing.
Another ride needs to beckon
to move this life
and keep it in gear.
Nothing happens
when the motor idles.
The id flattens without motion
and everything inside
comes to a stop too.
It leads me to wonder
whether the volcano is dead
or just lying in wait
to erupt once more
in flaming sparks
and send hot coals and searing lava
down the sides of this ancient life.
