≡ SARTRE’S HADES
– Our crutches smile, and surface pleases;
While lives fall apart, and turn into pieces.
At their church’s steeples, we are chancers;
Medicating a cancer as Hell is Other People.
In this box we can’t rotate. We are left bare.
There is nothing, but they take what’s there.
No! You can’t relate and yet not understand.
I know, here I stand; dressed up …not to go!
Answers are on the list, so questions remain.
No plan. – I’m a man one step ahead of pain.
Anger rises like a tidal wave in a glass of gin.
If I go; ‘a stranger’ will be all that’s left of me.