the finishing line
Everyone wants to get there
like super athletes on steroids.
It’s all they ever think about
sometimes, that silver trophy
which soon loses its sheen.
One is not enough, like shoes.
Well, a trophy is a metaphor.
It becomes a reason for living
more vibrantly, on purpose.
Don’t you think it’s lame if
all you ever wanted is eternal
bliss and you turned into
pious goody two shoes?
The logic is wonky as nails.
You can’t die faster to make
your way to the pearly gates.
If you’re a writer, you struggle
the way a caterpillar inches
forward on a leaf. If you love,
you will succumb to loss every
occasion it doesn’t work out
(gentle reminder to those
feeling like Mother Superior.)
There is heaven in hell (never
the other way around), which
gives comfort. There are angels
all around. I’m not an oracle,
so I can’t say if there’s a man
in the sky. You already know
that story. It’s truly fantastic.
All we do is huddle, order pizza,
mitigate our compromising past,
think upon the human condition,
how brutal, if you keep thinking
it is, and can’t think past it.
The past is always here in the
present, so is the slow future,
which will be equally magnificent,
even if not devoid of incumbent
problems. I say, find what is
resonant, keep believing, hold
someone’s hand, saunter in
fields of flower, not be a raging
bull as if the finishing line is the
entire point. Well, even if it is.
