The Myth of Twos


Memento Mori

Memento Mori

Not long ago for no sure reason, in quiet, I felt completely lost
Why I could not then and cannot now fathom any meaning here
Arguing the genesis of this dark emotion or mayhap a future cost
Frankly, it worried me, filled me with an unknown, unnamed fear

Where everything I could devise, create, all my thought and hope
Insulted my ears and heart, little more than useless, mindless chatter
Dross and drivel spouted by a aging fool, not yet given enough rope
Wondering, I pondered if anything I have, do or question can matter

Naked, I stood on my own street corner, clothed only in my confusion
Constantly, a little bell I rang, clinking pebbles caroming off a cliff-side
Darkly mirrored, in the shop windows, poor people pass by in profusion
Naked though I am, still, I know it’s these dark specters who need to hide

Puzzled within my own hallway’s dark, I find no doors, walk into walls
There must be some way out or through, though all looks closed to me
While touching all my art, furniture, recognizing my feasts, follies, falls
Wandering, confused, less to do with where to go, more with who to be

Indecisive, waffling, not knowing how this state of affairs came to pass
Flood waters rising all around me as I huddle upon my shrinking roof
No faith that divine intervention will save or damn me, no penitent mass
I’ll jump in any boat or helicopter that comes and not see this as proof

Eyes wide open, blind to all, uncaring that they are equally blind to me
Mouth tight-closed against the raging storm, winds my horrified scream
Had I not eyes, nor ears, nor mouth, lifeless, still I would talk, listen, see
All the ways to fabled Atlantis below or above the waves, I might redeem

Yet no imagined utopia, raised or drowned, darkens any remote lost horizon
Dreams alone show me where I must prospect, dig with only hope to find
World imperfect still, yet far better than the bed of nails you and I lie upon
Speaking without conscious volition, thought, straight to tongue from mind

Why seek intermediaries, despite how I was taught, asides and little white lies
Professing always only belief in goodness, honor, beauty, fortified by the truth
Horrors in me, all around me, tell me truly that truth is a virtue we all do despise
Our actions conflicting with all the righteous lessons poorly learned in our youth

Honestly, let us proclaim, be brave and shout only truth, now, always and forever
No savior waits, so I tell the worst lies to myself, to hide the darkness deep inside
You pretend faith in an old, white man who lives above the sky, our sins to sever
Ignorant by our choice to the fearful destruction of our home, where we all abide

The rain, I’m sure, did some time fall in torrents for endless, countless dreary days
Someone then created the myth of twos, an utter lie, of animals walking up a ramp
Stories we tell ourselves, repeatedly to understand, control, excuse our wicked  ways
Mired firmly in our childhood, where the one who stands atop the hill is the champ

While all around this puny hill, a festering swamp grows and sucks us further under
Discouraged, with no desire to compete, I stand on a distant tussock vainly screaming
Throat raw and lungs empty, aching, long for air, my voice unheard my world asunder
Yet my being allows  no surcease, my quest alone my meaning, my failures teeming

Explorers from afar come late to this seared desert where no swamp or sign remains
Blasted barren, empty from the wars, both won and lost, which perpetually we waged
Please look for my bones, though likely you’ll find no more than  dark and ashy stains
Say one found here, known to have tried, never found force, argument, to see evil caged

Place, please, a marker, a warning epitaph to the useless passing of a once vibrant race
Who never allowed itself to follow its own best instincts, but destroyed wantonly instead
No thought, philosophy, religion, faith or sacrifice could slow our rush, our frantic pace
And only alien strangers will ever care or search for artifacts to find reason we’re all dead


  1. We are all part of this mindless game of humanity and an unmerciful god uses us as his lab rats. What we leave behind for future generations will be an archaic form of silly trinkets. Yet we strive to collect much more. We’ll never be happy without complexity in life. Life where we do not take time to appreciate small joys.
    Another thought-provoking splendid piece.


    1. Thank you. Trying to work my way through my own head, my own life

      *Philip Brent Harris*

      The Pen’s Might

      *Brent Harris Fine Art

      Philip Brent Digital Art and Photography

      * The Extra Mile Art, shirts and other gift items

      Pacifica, CA 94044 650.515.0514 * * *


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