Fin

If it weren't for that sharp cry of gunpowder
I wouldn't have seen the state you are in now:
A lump of life that went away
only minutes ago.
Flesh of the head, torn,
and the cranium, cracked,
the carpet bleeding
as if it knew your pain.
Now, my hands are shaky,
My breathing, shallow;
My eyes, darting from one mundane thing to another.

Were you being stupid
or was this a mockery?

You told me before that only I could control
whatever happens in my life;
that fate, though pervasive,
is just something the ancients created
to explain
why snow fell out of the winter sky
or
how women gave birth
in a conundrum of "Life begets life,"
because they needed security.

Suddenly I have the urge to get up,
follow you to where you are now --
that is, if souls did exist --
and escape the consequences of maturity;
escape a day when
all we will care about our jobs
is when the next payroll will be;
escape a day when
all that rain will come to mean
is the process of precipitation.

It's selfish -
this isolation our age presses upon us.
We create little worlds and divulge in them,
shutting everyone out
just because we could.

But that's not a good excuse, is it?

Maybe someday I'll understand why
you were in such a hurry to leave.
Until then,
I'll have to clean your mess up.