Tuesday, December 20, 2011
You know, there's nothing I can do for you either
And this would be true even if it were not
already too late
You've already known so much more than I have
Been kissed by a prince, and burned with cigarettes
Adorned with rings, and smashed against
a cement surface
Taken for the devil, created an angel
Found that simple human kindness is not so
simple a thing, after all
Broken beyond touch, beyond repair: How dare I tell
you that this world is better than those things?
What kind of apology could I make?
Such intentions are obscene, less overtly cruel but
no manifestly kinder: Why draw you any nearer
now that you are safely gone?
Would I tell you that your mother really loved you,
Or tried to, or might have, had things been different
Had she encountered more luck or kindness along
her own way?
Oh, but you already know the answer to this: Did you ever call her anything but Mommy, and warm
to her embrace?
There is terror, but Satan is the belief
But why should I speak? You are the proof that we are made for better things
Why should there be any more beauty in the world than than what we put in it?
Still, our life is better than its meaning
Rain ain't memory, and it ain't heroin, either; it ain't no one's tears
It don't need to be anything else