25/365: No Pretty Words

I am made of meat.
There is no more terrible situation than this.
Electrified meat
makes us all Frankenstein's animated monsters,
dumb and lost and tragic.

When I was a little child,
I used to think that,
one day,
I would be a free person,
that I would learn freedom as I grew.
I did not know it then:
we are always bound.
People talk about spiritual freedom,
or psychological freedom,
but those are only kinds of freedom.
They only give us a taste.
They only give us so much
and no more.

I am tired.

I suppose this is how grief sits,
lumpen and heavy.
Grief itself is meaty.
I don't like the taste of it
or the feel of it sitting solid
just below my throat.

I am so tired.

There are only sentences today,
no pretty words
or metaphors
to fill in all the spaces,
to fabricate with sentences
the meaning we all hope is bound up in our activity.
I don't know that death has meaning.
This is the worst thought.

I don't know much of anything.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com

26/365: Ed Norton Fantasy Poem #3

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