in memoriam

They’ll write of me when I’m gone
(But for what use? Who will want to know?)

They’ll write that I sang sad songs
That I worshipped only my self
That I only loved a few and lusted for many
That my pain was middle-class
That my angst was middle-class
That my struggle was no great struggle
That the destiny I shaped was the same as a million others
That though I fought for greatness
I reached only a half way
And half greatness is only angst

That my theories didn’t exist
That my practices were unpracticed
That all the visions I had, were leftover nightmares
That whenever I thought of completion
It was the urgency of the deed, not its necessity that mattered

That in sickness, I stayed sick
And being healthy was of little use
That I fought a million wars
To fill the ears of a deaf man
That I bore some billion children from infertile wombs
That even my metaphors sucked big time

That had I tried a little more, I may have achieved greatness
That had I reached further, I might have become brave
That had I become brave, I might have led the battle forward
To struggle to free a million others like me

But why? What’s the point?