spirit

the many troubles.
wispy spooks without much weight.
like the pigs’ houses.

new intolerance.
pity archaic beliefs.
hatred in lipstick.

all over the web.
homophobic fox inside
sheep’s soft white clothing.

thousand men speak truth.
all falls on deaf ears because
one man tells a lie.

the wants are many.
the pain is getting heavy.
must lighten the load.

fortune favors the bold,
or so that story is told.
but fortuna is a woman
fickle and flighty,
and her nickname is fate.

and if you cross swords
with fate you might taste her hate
until the boldness in your veins
runs cold.

i want fortune and fame
and a flaming passion in my breast.
the latter i have
but as for the rest.
you might say i haven’t been blessed.

and the sigh like a cry
a plaintive motif.
i can tell you another thing
about fortuna so fickle.
the supplications of you and i
fall on deaf ears,
and all that is left is the dry
track of tears,
and the years and the years.
the bloody knees the unending fears.
the bowed back of an old man,
arthritic fingers still reaching,
that once held something
he thought very dear.