At the gates of death

After Psalm 107

Wait a minute, we’re all supposed to be

good, right, I mean, it’s not like

we’re Hitler, right, we make mistakes,

we misspeak, we’re boxed in by what

happened 50 years ago, or 100, or 157,

whatever, and because we’re good

it’s never our fault (I blame Trump),

we can all play our victim’s card,

earned and honorary membership, 

don’t tell me otherwise as I careen toward,

approach, stagger, stumble toward

the gates of death. I look around to see 

(blame) someone for shoving me here,

and all I see are mirrors, reflections 

that would embarrass Dorian Gray,

it’s all there staring at me really ugly

and the only thing I can do is cry

out.

Somehow, through the roaring

and the noise, all the screams around me

and the screams from me,

the cry is heard.

Photograph by Dil Assi via Unsplash. Used with permission.