"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.

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