That one thing could be
So beautiful and brutal.
To over and under estimate.
But stop at the puzzle of estimate.
To think much of
To think not much of
But not to simply think of.
Ugly in unnecessary death
Glorious in life lived to the brim.
Kind and harsh words
Woven into stories
Like different color threads in a cloth.
Blood-boiling and cold
Damning and brilliant.
Mortals haunt themselves with death
With the fact
That we are what we are:
Do we ever think
It is the opposite?
To come beyond our selfish and selfless selves
That we are the ones who haunt death?
Because there are so many ways
So many ways
And death has seen them all.
Our brilliant, our damning
Our glory, our ugly.
The different colors in cloth.
The colors he busies himself with finding.
He thinks not much, and then he is weighed down and travels light.
He thinks much, and he is disappointed and ecstatic.
He cannot simply think, because we do not let him
As he travels through the ever-changing world
We have wrought around ourselves.
We haunt with our heavy souls
Leaving impressions on his hunched back
And not make everything easier
By being light as feathers.
The few who are light
Have not much soul
Because they have given it all away
To those they love.
It means those others have more soul
But if anything they are lighter than feathers
Because they have more soul to give.
Lighter than light
Brighter than brilliant
And uglier than ugly
That they are so few.
It haunts death
To have so few like that
Upon his tired back.