Note: before you read this, I know people are not necessarily looking to be more depressed in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic: this is not necessarily a happy poem, so please read at your own risk. In a way, however, it can be interpreted as a poem of realization, of hope. The poem’s content is also nothing new: I have written about it a lot. I am just trying to reconnect to it in different ways, different poems.
The very overcoming of the world subdues the overcomer
to a core of existence that, with a serious face, resolves only in a resolute passion to a pursuit of being,
who only lives a fight against the inevitable and who builds a futile shelter of flesh and bones against a deluge of suffering, rushing and crashing endlessly.
They close their eyes and live in a dream of carefree indulgences in time and reputation,
a lost place, of dissonant cries and screeches of being found, of finding, and of knowing. Angels appear as devils, and devils wear halos.
Mortality is a train to midnight, which plows through effortlessly on invisible, sometimes misty tracks; it has no friction, but all its subjects, passengers.
Yet… in a faraway land… across seas and planets… there was one who believed, despite it all…