Free Range Poetry
27Oct/19

Nihilism Comes to Keats

When I have fears that I shall cease to be,
I know the ugly beauty of that truth.
And all our works, so mean and mighty, we
see crumble into dust and shit and toothless
desperation. Useless passions from
our high romance are rendered dull and senseless.
Our imprisoned lives! We do not come
to hell, nor heaven go, too high the fence
that guards the veil of hope. We witness lives
account for naught, a crumpled dollar bill
against the wind, and all those ones and fives
are toilet paper. Money? Work, until
to stardust you return, sans teeth, sans hair,
and then alone, reflect on all you've done: Despair.

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