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"And it's impossible to know all along" - QOTSA, Another Love Song
"Impossible to tell in autumn" - Robert Pinsky, Impossible to Tell
There's a Stephen King reference in the poem as well
It's been a while since I've been here. I do intend on uploading the rest of the fully explained Lost saga, as it is in my head, sometime. Here, in the meantime, is a poem that I wrote at 4 in the morning.
Even if three days ago we die,
And have a clean slate, still we dirty it:
No matter where we are, or how something
Like that happens, life is still full of grit.
My thoughts chase me through murky jungle depths
Like polar bears two hours gone from their cage
And I must confess: I just do not have
What it takes. I alight in fiery rage.
Meat and potatoes: that’s the real world,
But yet this place is different; something wild
Lurks just beneath the monster’s smoking gate
Where run aground, a man can be a child
Or comfort one he finds among the wreck
And adults too, with backgammon and knives
So that when bad cards issue from the deck
Such as now, he and they can save their lives.
We get to kill somebody, but for what?
Returned delights, a wave across the sea?
Will not we, sweating, wake in dead of night,
Look in the mirror and say “That’s not me,
For me is gone into the distant past,
Long weeks or aeons gone”, while others still
Tarry with churches, cabins, rocks and rafts
Or do not see that they will take the pill,
Or that there’s one to take. We cannot know
Our destiny, if there is such a thing,
And while the others break necks and inject,
Some of us sit and bathe in light and sing.
What comes to us through jungle-festered dark?
Allies, half-allies, daughter-killing men
Or scientists gone mad with time alone,
Who are these others? Alex? Henry? Ben?
Their names are not their souls, nor ours are ours,
For only through the smoke can we see clear.
The hatching dynamite has water-bombed
And yet, we are not now, but are still here.
From first to sixth dice face, we are the same
And yet so different as to not be known
E’en by ourselves – gone wild, what once was tame,
Living together or dying alone.
The shadows on the graves became the man
Envisioning tomorrow, seeing not
The shadows on his doorstep, creeping forth
From out of line, rendering him forgot
So violently, and all his fellows too.
Ah, even when we get to know anew
These shadow-men, and –women, answers lie
Beyond the reach of such as you and I,
Inside some nether-world of smokey glass,
Convenient misspellings, and in ice
In desert landscapes pregnancies apart
In time, to Tunis from Egyptian art.
Anubis drives our souls and, as a cat,
Throws all our lives aloft, and back again,
Playing as metaphor with this and that,
The heartstrings at our core. The greener men
With disregard for nature give no ground
As to our purpose here: they shoot to kill.
What was it that unlikely cured our ill?
We do not know – just like Elizabeth,
The Jacobites did not precede our death,
At least the first time round. Now we are here,
Now we are there, and then, and time is near
To settle in some fashion, left behind
Was good for us, not those who made the find.
Three years and nothing fundamental’s changed,
Save everything – we’ve grown up standing still,
E’en those of us who moved. He took the pill
Where once he would have blundered through the dark.
Where in the wreckage the defiant spark?
It’s all we have – defend it to a man
We must, as rose was defended by Gan:
For life goes on, and on, in different ways.
The world moves on; the private island stays.