On the Accent of Truth

Who’s not afraid of tacky Pearly Gates?
Fondness for pearls, or creeds, on this down planet
Does not insure the proper meeting of one’s end, it
Is the worst noose man has to fear, quoth Yeats*.

Won’t head for hells, nor heavens: boons and banes
The lower world is vast enough for no
Beyond, once rid of all, thy bones shall go
Where, slowly bleached, rest th’retically remains.

You ask me: Will you go or will you stay?
I answer: Where to go while staying here?
You tell me: Anyways, you’ll disappear.
I giggle: Is that not a question of delay?

You scold me: You’re one mindless optimist!
I say: You better cut me off that list.

August 31, 2023

*Under Ben Bulben, mar a déarfá.