There is no peace
In inheriting
A tax on our soul
Never promised
When committing each sin
Unintentional
Against this dream
Poorly held

How being alive
Shouldn’t feel
While aspiring low
Getting nowhere
Needing dead men’s gifts
Always better
Than that doctor’s pill
Makes you feel

Despite suffering loss
After trying
With avoidance
Or some other gimmick
Besides offfering work
Towards redemption
So hollow like grief
Earning cash

Barely mourning all those
Who had left it
Missing every chance
At achieving
Since success still remains
Too appealing
For few gone mad
Seeking truth

Fighting crazier whims
Writing poems
Through engaging lies
Burning papers
Once inspired by books
During high school
When words would stir
Younger hearts

Now old from turns
Losing battles
Facing enemies learned
Are inside us
Soon defeating lines
Merely tracing
Heaven’s message
Across what remains.

• J. Pigno