The driver of the bus to hell—
her words, not mine—
said everyone in the place was going
except me.
She said i was too pure of heart
said everyone in the place was going
except me.
She said i was too pure of heart
which left me reeling.
What was she seeing?
Some heart-on-sleeve long-suffering
i haven’t been hiding?
Some dogged class-clowning?
My willowy spine swaying in the winds
of our general discontent?
Is that really idealism
or am i just too damned exhausted
with long grief and the longer-dawning revelation
of the impossibility of compassion—
the way molecules never truly touch
but we still feel friction—
just what i, in my secret arrogance,
think of as my cursed wisdom?
What was she seeing?
Some heart-on-sleeve long-suffering
i haven’t been hiding?
Some dogged class-clowning?
My willowy spine swaying in the winds
of our general discontent?
Is that really idealism
or am i just too damned exhausted
with long grief and the longer-dawning revelation
of the impossibility of compassion—
the way molecules never truly touch
but we still feel friction—
just what i, in my secret arrogance,
think of as my cursed wisdom?
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