I Have Shoes, But Need Not Feet
When sin hits the half-eaten soldier,
inertia bane sidles below
as time talks behind your back,
where the softness of an embrace
dips away, fades away,
a way
one-way
that has us say:
"I have shoes, but need not feet."
Wriggling worms awaiting this moment,
decomposing these twin tools we employ,
but what use is travel
if it turns the heart to gravel?
Barren feet, they do entreat:
a musket shot buried
into your--well, brain or heart,
no distinction now
for decomposing art.
As revelation over the hills,
the moon rises instead of the sun.
It rises
into smoky darkness swallowing,
tossing its blizzard toward the human sea,
and as I stare, am I sniffling now?
I am not. I see emotion gone to a place
where escape, all along,
was a convincing masquerade.
To live!
Who can,
without that psalm;
that once-in-a-lifetime laughter?
Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017
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