Let me start by making the case plain:
life is full of constant pain.
An invisible tapestry stitched like rain
you feel its cool presence, the hand of pain:
we must go buy food again,
pay the bills and appease this pain.
And yet our masks paint us sane,
no other way to deal with pain;
turned away from ardour’s grain,
stork to stork, friends in pain:
secretly longing, mouthing consummation’s name,
barriers to body inflict their pain.
Wolves and sheep in a smoke haze
under scrutiny of spyglass pain,
consumed, consuming; dead and slain,
the world births us, we feel its pain.
But why should we hold this chain,
enchained in self-flagellating pain?
Its bonds are cool and it makes us lame.
O! how I long for the happy death of pain!
Yet often have I wondered of its self-shame.
Does it pity itself, agonise itself – pain?
If not through love then through bright fame –
can that give restful peace to this wearied pain?