how hard it will be

to finally let go

of the grief that defined me--

who will I be then?

will I matter at all?

ghostly brides will float along

dark crypts skull teeth grin

greeting me and I'll be so bored

as to say "how trite! poets and mystics

starve themselves for visions

and all they get are these stale images

from generations so far gone

imbeciles point and hoot at their relics

in sideshow museums?"

how good to finally know the great fear

the big gaping wound

are as nothing

just things we thought we saw on us--

but how hard to let go of all that

when it is the mistaken world view

of the age that formed me?

Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.