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Description
A nightmare, when you get down to the truth’s
Nub, is really just a particular
Kind of dream, so perhaps, I should feel some
Small joy, take comfort that bad luck is luck
After all, and expose my heart and mind
To a radical acceptance—the line
Which divides trivia and tragedy
Is only a number; a small one, too,
In the grand schemata. Although the proofs
Escape me, I think appealing, instead,
To emotion would be more effective
An argument than one couched in logic.
It is best that some words never combine.
I understand there must be some small trace
Of self-preservation in living things,
But there cannot be a guarantee that
There is someone, somewhere, who adores you,
Would do anything, would reclaim you, no
Matter how far away you strayed, other
Than your most secret admirer: Death.