About suffering they were always wrong,
about pain they never experienced
like the sufferer does. The old Masters
can think what they want
but they don’t understand.
Someone is eating
or opening a window
or just walking dully along.
We are all just bystanders,
third wheels,
nothing.
They never forget of the martyr,
the suffering,
the torture.
Until the next bit of gossip comes around at least.
Then it’s some old tale from the past
one put away in a box
under lock and key. Buried
in the emptiest forms in our brain.
Icarus,
how life quickly changed before your eyes.
Few heard the splash,
the cry,
from the falling boy in the sky.
We would do well to remember
the consequences
but just as quickly the disaster came,
it quickly passed.
Somewhere life calmly sailed on.