Fuck-
That’s what it must have been:
Luck

Seen
Not heard- I was but a shadow- merely discerned.
How keen

For the host to peek through the blinds; concerned
At exactly the right time
What hatred to the world had he learned?

But of course I was the pantomime.
For the entire span of my life:
I’ve been the filth no one’s taken seriously; the grime.

Why the hell would he not grab his knife?
And force this sad realization of mimicry out of my head?
Beware: there’s a killer- To Fife, to Fife!

I was a notable man in my stead.
I will- would have- assured you of that, noble guard.
I am lying down now, burdened with your lead.

It’s hard-
To imagine what isn’t come into being
For reality is no bard

And regardless of seeing
Sweet poetry, life supports no true justice- for
The scales are always tipped in this world – and now, here for my being.

Poor
Is my cruel heart, so I will dare cry out: “Wherefore art thou?”
But no response, and my utterance dies; it does not soar.

Does timeliness allow?
Balance and order- no- morality is surely a fool’s game.
But still, how? Somehow-

This is negligible.
I’m dying of a shotgun wound in this biting December snow
Because I couldn’t live to see my children eating ketchup packets five nights in a row-

Sad, and ironic-
“Fuck you, Jesus.”