All About the Unknown
Life is a series of scars,
each more painful and more beautiful
than the last,
a lattice work of wounds
from wars you were often unaware
you were fighting,
the mystery solved only after
your corpse was found,
and not yet dead.
on the outside.
Preachers and medicine men dance
and chant, their songs swing wildly
between dirge and dance,
incantations of belief in life after life,
life after wounds, life
after the little death that plagues us all,
dark and seepingly
colorful endings, deserving of a Fellini film.
This is what they know:
there is no death.
There is only change,
a bloody kaleidoscope
wild with the tiny flakes of color,
yours and others you know and
do not recognize,
all dancing like those afflicted
About this poem
I blatantly stole the title of this poem from a reader’s blog, “Mythical Planet”, whose subtitle is “all about the unknown”.
What a wonderful, impossible phrase! DId I know what I would write? Did I have a clue? Of course not. I just let it settle all day, until this came out.
The painting is called “Fissures.”