in the end in poetry

in the end we will all mostly be
strung up on thick crosses hewn
from the wildest of our dreams

“perfect or nothing” as an ethos
is the worst of all possible worlds
all the effort with none of the outcome
might as well not try at all if that
step back instead, breathe, do the math
consider what is immediately possible
then fight like hell for that reality
you may well soil your two hands in
the holy dirt some curse as compromise
but the feel of that grime is okay
that’s how you know you’re doing good

in the end we will all mostly be
strung up on thick crosses hewn
from the wildest of our dreams

there’s no winning in this life
no endgame or victorious revolution
no glorious finally-final conclusion
there are only cycles smaller than you
and cycles that are larger than you
there is only digging in your heels
to hold off Ragnarok while trying to
teach others to do the same after
you’re gone because someday, yes
someday we will all be gone away

in the end we will all mostly be
strung up on thick crosses hewn
from the wildest of our dreams

Don Quixote wasn’t a tragic hero
he was a melodramatic idiot-child
a madman pornsick on poorly written
chivalric pennypress trash and he
brought disaster wherever he went
he was a massive negative example
looking up to the Man of La Mancha
imperils yourself as well
as the human race entire

in the end we will all mostly be
strung up on thick crosses hewn
from the wildest of our dreams

in times of bold lies
be subtly true instead
in times of uncomplicated hate
be complex in your loving
living through a terrible drought
make sure there are seeds in reserve
to bloom again when the water returns
if the water manages to make a return

in the end we will all mostly be
strung up on thick crosses hewn
from the wildest of our dreams

except for the few who breathe
think about doing good instead
of trying to be great and
hold back the ocean for a
time inside the teacup of
your pragmatic compassion