The Sheet

I say, what do I say?
War is not the answer; it lends itself
to big dirt and blood and suffering.

Love is not the answer; it lends itself
to soft touches and the betrayal
of sideline glances.

Hate is not the answer; enough to be said
of hate’s feints and subtleties
to be distrusted.

Indifference is not the answer; enough to be said
of its equally subtle responses
and air of sublime uncaring.

So what do I say? I say nothing —
I spread my hands out like there’s a sheet before me,
a sheet to lay over my bed like snow.

I say nothing — I lie down on the unsoiled sheet
only I can see and prepare to sleep
until the sheet changes under me.

War, hate, love, indifference — all slip away
like the sheet bearing blood of memory,
clouds of real life;

I sleep, forgetting
my promises, my duties,
my responsibilities; I just sleep

like a villain on the second night after
I have laid aside my bones,
your bones, your concerns.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T