If I

If I was but a conquest for the soon to be after-life,
Waiting for the downtown streetlight to cast a silhouette of God,
I could justify to myself that despite feeling loneliness in every step I
take, equilibrium of worth could be an instant away.
Searching through empty avenues and invested failures—for something pure…
Pure, simple, and free.

If I foolishly fell in love or hate,
I could be like a miner, and dig not for coal, but emotion.
Letting me judge the wishful eyes of those who realize true beauty, and
stares that despise the living ghost which inhabit the same boulevard, town,
or city.

I could encourage my Frost persona and take the road less taken, and view
the wonders of a final, separate path—or I could act like Manson, and take
anger on those who spit in my vicinity, waiting like the cheetah for the
inevitable kill.

If I was a prophet, I could be Jesus.
If I was pure evil, I could be Beelzebub.

I could lead my flock to heaven.
I could take my troops to hell.

So, as I hold this gun to my head—and factor all the options I have
At this moment.

A world of so many indifferent souls.
So many people with their own terrors, hiding behind a shameless experience
called existence.

I wonder if my hesitation to pull the trigger is an act of wanted faith or a
desperate fear of facing the fire.

Dan Provost is 41 years old and reads a lot of poetry. Some of his favorites include:
Bukowski, Lyn Lyfshin, RC Edrington, JJ Campbell, and Arthur Rimbald. He has been
published in numerous poetry e-zines and small print magazines.

© 2006 Underground Voices