The Ishmael Gradsdovic Papers, part two


Part two of the papers of Ishmael Gradsdovic is the following manuscript:


Tuesday, March 22, 1988
   Tears and sobs wracked the face
   existing lonely in the space
   where once before another shared
   the space and for him had cared
   The curtains dimmed as the sun
   condemned the man to day is done
   who still sat there one alone
   and heavy, by the silent phone.
   Was there nothing that he could do
   to stop the wicked shame he knew?
   Shame caused from feeling oh so bad
   because their end had made her glad.
   "When my love is happy, so should I be
   even if she is happy without me."
   And thus cruelly his conscience teased
   and he with himself was more displeased.
   
   "Dear God, if there must be such sorrow,"
   he cried, "must I stay to see tomorrow?
   I should ignore her new love but
   they roll together in my gut
   and punch the holes through which bleed
   the sorrow sap of neglected need.
   Oh what a kindness it would be
   if I should never live to see
   her walking with him hand in hand.
   Oh god," he cried, "please understand!"
   So razor in hand, his life to end
   the toilet bowl his life's last friend,
   he gave the world a final plea:
   "Oh, what can life still mean to me?"
   He addressed to God, shameful of sin,
   but his answer had to come from within.
   
   "No sorrow can, however deep,
   make worthless the secrets life would keep.
   The joy which may today be dim
   is quite alive in her and him
   and though I am drenched in hate and strife
   that too is what makes up a life.
   Someday," he said to her, "I too
   will feel the joy that now fills you.
   No more shall wicked envy chime
   within my head.  It's only time
   which keeps me away from joy
   and makes me tempted to destroy
   this gift, this life, this wondrous dream
   and tear apart the fragile seam
   which binds me to this life.  I see!
   All that it would mean to be.
   To think my wants got in the way
   of living life for each new day."
   
   So up he sprang and crushed his frown
   contemptuously threw his razor down,
   to the toilet he said, "Goodbye my friend
   you won't drink blood when we meet again!"
   Now free to concentrate on being
   in the life he now was seeing,
   he chose to believe in the worth
   given every thing just by its birth.
   A worth which no god can give
   but is the birthright of all who live.
   A new man rose that hadn't sobbed,
   the razor of his blood was robbed,
   and happy that he wasn't dead
   he stretched out upon his bed
   and drempt of life with no needs, no sorrow
   and thought little of the blessed morrow.
  



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