Friday, October 11, 2013

Poetry confessional

So… I was really into poetry in college, as I’m sure many of you were/are (I’ll have to tell you about the depressing poetry contests, sometimes) but I hadn’t written in years. As Mark Twain said, “Contentment does not lend itself well to verse.”

Then… I kind of went through a super stressful time lately, and my first poems in years suddenly fall out of my fingers. And, since you’re a captive audience, I’m subjecting you to them.

Nero fiddled while Rome burned
But no one thought to ask
If it was he who struck the match
If the slide of bow across strings
Was a mock of the city he’d felled
Without an army at his back
A celebratory dance
For the destruction he’d conjured

Or if he saw the flames
Only when others did
Tasted death as it was carried on the wind
And reached for the fiddle
So he could spend his final moments
In song


Somewhere, the world is ending

There may be warning signs
Arguments in the night
Whispers of disappearing money
The slow fading of the light in their eyes

But that final morning
Always keeps its silences
Never admitting
That this will be the last moment
Before your own private apocalypse
There will be no time to mourn
No companion with you in the bunker
Only blue skies
That seem a thousand miles away
And the memories of a world

That lies shattered at your feet.

1 comment:

  1. My favorite poem is the Nero one. I had never thought of it that way