I chase
Derivative death
From a feeling
Not quite special
Which kills me
Far too often
In the sense
There is no cure

For daydreams
Calling bluffs
Of a sadness
Nearly common
Like falling ill
At moments
When our truth
Is hard to take

Passing out
On chairs
Expecting
Final answers
With remedy
To this panic
That builds
Upon our woes

Seeking
Easy cures
Beyond this
Daily practice
Of an empty prayer
Which buries
Our bodies
Fallen sick

As medicine
Keeping faith
While the symptom
Offers solace
Instead of
Plaguing instants
Where happiness
Hurts us more

Like chores
To mind such pain
Through hope
So surely wasted
From experience
Truly joyless
By the scares
Within our soul –

A slow
And public end
As I narrate
Without reason
My sudden
Crucifixion
That’s routine
Each day I wake

Awaiting
Bloodless sweat
From the scars
You cannot witness
But learn
Are merely weeping
By perception
Standing still

Though I argue
Flesh is fake
Upon learning
God is distant
As that grief
Within my lashes
Across this back
Exposed

Tells of
Mortal woes
We share
In wounds together
As light
Our lifetime passes
Never gains
Its reason why.

– J. Pigno