we wake at death's door

[Steve]

it seems we wake at death’s door, hear a bell but know not what for;
we’ve settled to sleep-live and walk around know-nothing-but-all’s,
dulling our mortal knives clipping toe nails of St. Jude seeking a cure
when the antidote rang but we were ignorant to its call;
too consumed in ourselves Nature carved bathos on the wall
and confused we took to writing our wit in truck-stop stalls.

long ago Paolo’s gust has ceased, now he lies anchored without his lover’s touch;
Sappho’s blood, salted and diluted, cries lost in the seas we’ve polluted;
her words safely in Phaon’s forgetful eyes beyond our mortal clutch,
the existence of such love would only be refuted
by our muddled minds, be disputed,
only to have the Serapias uprooted.

it seems we wake at death’s door, hear a bell but know not what for;
Pavlov’s success limited to canines, now below the realm of curs we roam,
taking and snatching, biting and scratching, demanding more
never realizing everything doesn’t replenish as much as sea foam;
love we call a ten dollar moan, never the mourning old crone,
love we call our buried bones-seldom those marked by stones-
pathos! we cry before we sleep, but Nature feels no pity for our decaying bones
and burns a B over our P- because death’s door we’ve made our home.