The Brief Candle

I am weary of pain,
weary of sickness
and weary of strife,
weary of thickness,
at times of very life
(to speak ugly truth)

I weary of all
the sound and the fury,
the T.V. fiends that "lie like truth;"
I'm weary of dusty old fools,
weary of arrogant youth

And, yet,
though we weary of it:
the sun shines on
and with its unthinking fire
lights brief candle
after brief candle,
yesterday and today,
tomorrow and tomorrow...
and tomorrow

As yesterday and yesterday
and yesterday,
like long-forgotten wars
over wafers and wine
and ends of eggs,
like poor players mangling their parts
from ivory towers holding golden goblets,
like Li Bai drinking his way
through a poor man's life...
his poetry later to be revered
in gold leif,
while tomorrow's "great man"
(unbelieved)
haggles and struggles
with the mindless traditions
and superstitions
so native to man...
till in Nietzschean madness he wishes
them and all all undone

And yet,
blind as Homer,
still brightly shines the sun
on the poor player and his fury,
on the weary soldier and his gun,
on the mindless millionaire
and the philosophical bum

And when it sets,
the world's lit with brief candles:
I am one,
no more.
Such as I have been,
and been, and been,
before
(the world's seen many a Jesus,
many a warrior,
many a philosopher,
and many a whore;
what shall be
has been before)

And yet,
before the reaper shuts it,
we must walk through life's door.
If life gives us a sword,
we must wield it;
if we make a promise we can't keep,
we must break it.

If life cuts us,
we must bleed;
if authorities order us,
we must heed
(or they make and break us;)
See, it's not a rank and disordered garden
ONLY, that grows to seed.
The joyful wheat of life grows
side by side
with the weed

Many say:
"out, out, brief candle"
but few blow it out
if it will burn

Instead, we fend off
those who threaten it,
and from pride and even "honor"
descend...
to shield it from the wind
and rain

Indeed, for one of strength
and wealth to deadly quietus make:
take Elliot Smith or Kurt Cobain,
that they forget his flaws
and hallow his name
(as if to encourage lesser souls
to do the same,)
and yet they demur,
yet they refrain

They continue on,
though for a while diseased
or a while insane,
with half a soul
or half a brain...
and sometimes, the sun
again makes them whole
or even stronger than before...
winter does not eclipse the sun
but gives way to Spring,
rose hips, and thaw

Indeed, in this world
the high-caste Buddha saw
as futile and full of suffering,
we wise poor go on enduring,
fighting, creating,
and yes, suffering

In time,
we learn the ropes a bit
(how to dodge a blow
or take a hit,)
and those who really
this world know...

learn to like the player
even though he's poor,
though his mangled tale's
been told before...

waves are common
as is the shore,
and what shall be
has been before
(says he who really
knows the score)

And jaded Macbeth
just proves this true,
(as decade after century
he lives on through...,)
in great poetry providing
the darker view,
medicine for the many
and beauty for the knowing few,
as we "weary tommorows"
ramble through...

our fardels to bear,
our deeds to do