A Green Hill Poem by Byepolar Bayer

... between achievement and sin
forgetting and forgiving.

Maybe Beckett saw it when he killed himself
in the creaking cathedral of our dreams
or Eliot ran with it unknowing –
as if that might be true –
up the corridors of some chilling paradox
and found More there,
not hanging or headless or chained,
forfeited in pointless pleasing power games,
but running out, demented

from a quiet place filled with violence,
no certainties, and maybe peace
for the few who’ve broken time
by learning not to ask the questions that nag,
not blinded by the dust of information
blown into their on-line eyes,
nor pious with the corrosion
of assumed intent
or maybe bludgeoned into it instead
by ten million years of ill fitting dna.

Who among us dancing in the square of life
through all the movements that surround
touched by everything and yet untouched
would not have wanted to be chosen
but would have failed at the brink of blood
and not crossed

into the murder of self
for even that kind of glory
given time to think it through?

Only the few perhaps
who cannot find a way
into their own world

and their voices come and go like darkness
out of polite and foaming despair...