HINDSIGHT

Does it take a fool to not recognize
a black truth, staring them in the eyes?
That the the crawling skin speaks the truth, a dark ivy of telling
and that the ringing in their ears is the bluebells, knelling.
A knock on death's door is not always a wish, but a question
for the sage to whom you might mention
the things you're afraid to know, but he does for you.

When I die, Sir, will it have been worth the lie
the struggle, the stifle, and the blind eye
to all the things waiting in shadows for another day
and all the words never braved to say?
Tell me, Sir, what'll it be-- a screaming cry
or a dejected sigh?
When you send me downstream, remind me
please, for the sake of all things lost for others to be
that I can choose it, that I choose it.

What's never spoken is not a lie
and what's not the truth is kindred nigh
if the betoken road is taken-- head cast down, eyes on the ground.
Do as they say, not as they do, dirty and down
behind their own blackened windows
and you'll never walk yourself to the gallows
but you will also never never smile, breath hitched, and jump.