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Our Sources Are Unreliable




Our sources are unreliable;
our destinations, undesirable.

Death should only come
when we begin to live without surprise.

I wish some of the dead
were not.
They are not,
and I wish they were.

Grief is a gap
through which the inevitable peeks.

We want to shine with the beauty of grief
but only soil ourselves with it,
the pleasures of looking back,
the nihilism of not looking forward.

When the irreplaceable people are gone,
how long can we live among the remaining
strangers who resist our knowing them?

It's not their fault they die.
(I know where the blame belongs.)
It's still wrong.

Confession: I sometimes embrace cliché for its truth
rather than ridicule it for its limitations.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.