The Articles of Adoration

Am I the fool,
or is fate?
For believing happiness possible
with an expiration date–
with Time’s scythe
constantly whispering
sweet nothings of capture
of victory
of out-racing the capacity
for love to grow a seed into
a garden.

I won’t accept
that I spent a year building a coffin,
that I spent my heart’s sweat
in a mausoleum,
that joy is poisoned honey
finally overwhelming.

I will not claim
your kisses were strychnine–
that those hands held
the executioner’s blade.

I will not be domineered
by a law of fictitious
state and country lines,
to papers detaining and authenticating,
for the human condition
to be contingent upon everything
but the emotion in it.

I will not acquiesce
for it’s too easy to slump in defeat,
to climb back into bed with insatiability,
to court the disaster
of the terminally undecided.

I will not accept
the heart monitor’s siren cry;
wailing demise
while the mind remains ripe.

These shackles I will not wear.
No longer will I play
safety’s game—
for it warrants no cushion
in the grave,
no solace
at those ominous pearly gates.