I don’t want to go home,
smell the flames and death,
taste madness in the air.
Despair.
I’d rather drown
in a pitch-thick abyss,
than a sea of bright lies.
Realize.
I’d prefer a painful truth,
over comfortable nothings,
and watching them spread.
Dread.
Given the choice ‘tween,
happy lies, dark truths,
I choose the latter,
for nothing will extinguish truth’s glow.
Know.
Reality fades,
the universe with it.
Learn why,
defy.
I will not always,
say things that you like,
but make no mistake
that is my right,
to hold in my heart,
for that which I’ll fight.
I have opinions,
as do you, too,
but do suspect,
that far too few do,
disagree with effect.
Bear that in mind,
with whomever you like.
But remember,
they too have a right,
to believe and hold dear,
for that which they’ll fight.
You may be wrong.
You may be right.
You may find joy,
in silence respite,
But recall;
no hatred is might.
It is formed by a mind,
fearing to accept,
disagreements and pleads,
to be better, correct.
But humanity’s needs,
must turn off our hatred.
Our anger and spite.
So we together, embrace,
for that which we’ll fight.
So drink from the cup,
of wisdom and truth,
denying the rituals,
formed in man’s youth.
It may be there that we found them,
now they’re uncouth.
Teeth gnawing bone to marrow.
Blood red spatters along a predator’s mouth.
Death taints the air with sickening sorrow.
But is it beast or man,
of that which I speak?
Cold and harsh with icy wind.
Needles stinging lungs with each breath.
Nipping frost along dew-moist eyes.
But is it love or hate,
of that which I speak?
Perspective.
Infective.
Detective.
Corrective.
Flowing outward in diverging currents.
Sounds both entrancing and distracting.
While in the middle of it all drifts dead-wood.
But is it a river or a crowd,
of that which I speak?
A million more ways it could be put.
Perhaps infinite more than that.
Going round and round in circles.
But is it life or death,
of that which I speak?
Sometimes I wonder,
about rain and thunder,
snow and ice,
wheat and rice.
Then I remember,
sleek and slender,
the nature of reality,
and all that we see.
It’s but a phase of dimensions,
angled in tensions,
to form minds of oneness,
bring hope to the helpless.
Thus we remain,
forever contain,
the universe’s essence,
in our lowly presence.
And when one day
we step away,
we’ll turn to dust,
with stars we trust.
So when it comes,
total your sums,
and greet the end,
as an old friend.
S. M. Nolan's Sci-Fi Logbook 