Sad Quintain

Painstaking scribbling on the story’s last page

tells of the carpenter allergic to wood.

A poet who would be poignant if only he could.

The literary dancer prone to miss steps,

the betrayed lover who surrenders to rage.

Everything that lives eventually dies,

you cannot know what is not known.

Your very last hour you are dancing alone

out near the imaginary edge of town,

still confused by how reality lies.

Invited inside aging’s overcoat,

time gives you a professional pat down,

assuming you will again back down,

assuring weaponless resistance;

as always redemption remains remote.

Realized danger in this routine but scoffing at it,

knew, but was past caring

what clothes the emperor was wearing.

Life was scarcity of truth and at the end of it

was no revenge on those who were profiting.

Tells of the unindicted co-conspirator’s fate

clutching unverified truth to his chest,

no better or no worse than the rest.

Accusing the abuse on everyman,

savoring the undeserved checkmate.

The rope, the empty vial and the note,

an elegant lady to take his hand,

ones who mattered might understand.

We all escape in different ways our selfish devils

who never write or ever read the things they wrote.

If all this is remembered in fifty years or more

the song will be what is recalled.

most of the violence, not at all.

The story the song tells is the only one that counts,

explaining without saying what the tears were for.

A wire by Satan’s hand is twisted tighter,

he knows the time is almost here,

walks a small step behind his fear.

a tongue is bitten, blood is tasted,

the rage appears; he will stand and fight here.

Beauty of his work leaves not much else to say.

Eternal bonds are breaking quickly

for the wounded, the maimed, the sickly.

For him there would be easily followed clues smelled out,

curtain closing to small applause would end his play.