I am the weak link
I am the truth that escapes no lie
I am the Rubicon
where Caesar burned his ears
dispensing with tonality in favor of fame
I am Hitler's affection for art
But more than that
beyond any great man's destiny
I am that which creates nations
and religion
I am a squalling crack baby banging
unceremoniously on the insides of a back-alley dumpster
fetal, fecal and destined to disappear
I am the cruel man's fists
and his wife's broken face
and (not one to stand on vicious ceremony)
the silent screaming terror of their
horrid distant child
An inventory, strange and small, things
to punctuate a dictionary
of fear
and yet with dismal power, exquisite pain
and encyclopedic mannerisms
in houses great and odd
in shattered pews and misplaced intentions
it can only rust the sieve
and display a sum too quirky to calculate
for every day is different
and every morning identical
for we all wake up as I do
weak
and alive
(c) David McIntire