Life wept and sent me into crisis.
An arm around my shoulder, the doctor gave counsel:
He says, if I take my pills, I will forget my grief, I will be happy.
He says, the Lord is in my heart, if I search it, I’ll find him, and he’ll save me.
He says, if I climb the right steps, I’ll be normal, if I talk about it: this thing I can’t mention.
My lies are those of one who doesn’t trust, and so I fear
that unless the lying stops, I will —
become the prank who attends his own funeral, mingling
with the mourners, and whispering secret obscenities.
(c)text Rob Goldstein 1984, image Rob Goldstein 1917
