Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Frost at midnight

On the eve of my birth, I feel angry.
Listen to the words. Listen to the slap
Of angry metal against supple flesh.
Can you ever forgive yourself?

You will never understand, will you?
You will never be right with yourself?

But you pretend and you pray.

Prayer's got the answer, does'nt it?

Doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

I forgive you.


  1. Note: this is about war. It is not about me.

  2. I've been reading a lot about postmodernism lately and I can't help but see postmodern philosophies in everything, from this poem to the guy that sell me apples out of his truck down the street. The relative and absolute. Just my two cents.

  3. Well written by the way, one of my favs.