This Place of Ours

Survival is an accident,

We never planned to hang around.

Just chance that we’re still here, some say,

Good luck! I say –

It doesn’t matter anyhow.

 

All this is pointless, said the man

Who stood neck-deep in opiates.

He was the only one who smiled

While all the others feared the end.

 

Robespierre saw through it long ago,

He found the only thing he could:

A childish joy in chopping heads

And taking charge of what else would

Have been the whims of an indifferent

Universal

Chance.

 

Who are we kidding – it still was,

And it is, and it still will be.

All that’s against it is this here:

A long dead poet’s testimony.

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