Archive
02/25/11 - (2)
Last Stages
Once, when I was in the youthful throes of old age, I convinced my overreaching soul That I would always grow increasingly omnipotent, omniscient, And that doing so was my entitlement, birthright; To do otherwise would be to commit a crime against my cosmos.
And in those golden days of my tenth and eleventh decades, Who was I to dare mortify the supreme being of my dreams, me, Disturb the perfect universe of my hubristic psyche, By exposing my delusion of grandiose everlasting immaculateness To the tainted realities of ashes and dust and nothingness?
All I knew, in that one-room school of my rapidly collapsing future, Was that life was great, majestic, and that I was infallible, That if there were any wrong at all I could perpetrate, It was a wrong which would beg me to rectify it, Bequeath it new life, life eternal, as something pristine, godly,
By lifting, from its shoulders, the burden of its original misconception, Relieving its sprit of the tribulations of being born corruptible. I fervently believed in the supremacy of my being — A oneness come, in the flesh, to grace mankind, with my touch, Capable of bestowing salvation on lesser souls.
But now, in these extremely late days of my last stages of old age, There's but one certainty my psyche possesses: The indignities of the flesh's decomposing and the bones' moldering Tell me, with decrepit disrespect, that my feces isn't sacred, Just that of a stupid, incontinent old man weeping for his youth.
02/25/11 - (2)
|
|||
|
|||
