Saku-San


What pleasure’s mere good health, eh?
Thus speaks Saku-san: brutal
Elucidation of the futile state of our
Span. Especially in a funereal room,
A once sacred space (or, at the very least, enjoyed);
Now it reeks of the bedpan, anemic,
Void of what once was, of the merry-old,
Left to decline with the seasons,
Putrid, cold.

Prevaricating, I exit the chasm to enter another:
Confused, despairing, chary to commit to this tangible
Phantasm, I flee to Sensei, or God, or some
Other force of reason. But what is reason on this spiraling
Sphere? Jumbled are the lyrics to humanity’s air;
Cacophonous, we try to barter with the inevitable
But come up cozened. Christ,
I just want to make sense of this muck,
But who doesn’t?

So I reenter the chasm, look into my father’s waning eyes,
Mouth slightly ajar, pale, defeated; and I
Give in to eternal recurrence, ouroboros, simply realizing
That we’ve been cheated.

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