Tuesday, April 28, 2015

i do not speak of this

justice is an illusion
oft' clung to, an ideal for those who
still have ideals,
but in the end, start and middle,

is never there.


fairness is a dream
dreamt by those who
still have dreams, by those
who've not encountered the great crush of Reality's taking hand:
fuck your dreams, it says.

truth only matters to truth
and to those who, weariness impending,
exhaustive pursuit neverending,
still chase after it. truth is what happens when we tell it.
but if the lies are spoke first, then the lies become it.
and if twists on truth are then believed, belief trumps it.
truth. ha. truth for some is now whatever this one decides to make it.

there is no better one than she,
this Thwarter so admiring her own games,
this one from whom the devil chose his ways;
behavioral spirals and abject denial's definition;
she can not survive in a world touched by justice.
she can not let her children alone. she will rip them,
limb from limb, heart from loving heart, until they are fragments.

But why? It's a fair question. I used to ask it, too. But then, my moral code has too oft' got a beating.
Being good used to have meaning. It used to matter.

Now there is
no matter
what
this feeling
that she'll just go on and
take
take
take
take
take.
She can
not survive
while giving.


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