Self-Consolation
What we are to others does not matter
We each die alone
It is only the relationship we court
to every thought that occupies the mind
that makes our home a hovel or a mansion
a place of rest or a place of torment
Seeking eternity and surety
we encase change with stone
hope with despair
issuing ultimatums to a universe ungoverned by man
who wistfully, blindly reaches for the brass ring
forsaking his god-given power to order his own dwelling
Self-consolation may be the most seductive of all mistresses
the starter, the leavening of the next poem
the meaning to vacillating emotions
that would otherwise die of their own lack of substance
if left to their own volition
and for that –
for that stunted consolation prize
that hit that momentarily sustains us
through pain and doubt and anger
that licking of the wound
that wall of fortification
that convoluted, illusory reward
that deep abyss
that Judas of a kiss
for that, we never reach
the pinnacle of praise,
the summit of peace
or the mount of joy
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