Events don’t define who a person is;
what happens in his life merely relates
the full metal crash of ironic diss
set upon him by decree of the fates
in order the gods’ blood lust to placate.
When weary surgeon’s gown drips with ichor
of his patient too long under the knife
he sees pall of death in cold eyes flicker;
humbled and cowed, defeated, deep in strife,
still runs the gauntlet of the dead man’s wife.
In her eyes he sees the failure of prayer,
the missed cut, the wrongful act, even worse,
conviction that he does not even care;
that damning judgment draws from her a curse
unspoken, wrathful as it is obverse.
We carry guilt of helpless offenses
despite all we do to make good the cure;
must suffer incorrect consequences
as opportunities fail to mature
and need to accept life as saboteur.
Interesting poem Larry about life, so very true. Life can be a saboteur indeed, despite our very best efforts to the contrary. I liked your clever words that you used in this poem and the message that it brings us all.