Why did noone tell us the cost of living;
Of time wasted listening to dull repeats of lessons
that were repeats of other, so called, lessons
improperly heard and undigested.
How these lumps and clots of half knowledge might clog the arteries of the mind
blocking the paths of all common sense;
clogging the channels through which life flowed
Waiting to be told something unsayable..
The unspeakable was only an instant behind the moment.
Evidence sprung up in the library,bound copies
told of secret police
night raids and death marchesm
but that was in another country
and a long time ago.
Why was there noone to listen to our story,
to treat us like more than receptacles.
And how the urge to retain a small piece of self
would be seen as defiance and ill will
stopping us from becoming the perfect image
the mother dreamed up before the mirror as the father gazed at our polished shoes and smoked a pipe.
And how our not being them reborn was a shattering blow
that we were punished for,
when it was our creative life they were stealing.
The cost of living might bankrupt a person before they became adult;
And the sense of judgment paralyse new action or fresh speech.
The cost of living is greater than we can know.
Being alive is not always permitted,
but one must be a very good actor even while dying;
otherwise punishment will be added to the tortured mix.
How to survive being under another’s control when it’s clear they love you only if you are what they decide?
Perhaps one can shrink into a nutshell and be buried
hoping for good weather rain and sun.
Sometime in the unknowable and fictionally hopeful future.
The sun also rises.
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