In order to live

I think
in order to live
you must learn to hate on life.

This is the crucifixion

or annihilation
of the Buddha.

The Whitsundays:
the islands,
the sun
- the world a crystal

bar the stings

for the world
yet knows
torture.

Campfires
- mates and stories and love -
are crystals too

but they blight
as we rot then die then rot.

It's not that love ain't a thing.
It's that love
ain't found in life
but despite it

by the naked nothingness
that's you

on that cross,
in that cave

with no one left to blame.

Our ancestors blamed The Spirits,
our grandfolk blamed The Jew,
we blame Trump;
bogeymen everywhere.
You've held your breath
for campfires
and islands in the sun.

But hanging off that crucifix,
it all seems such a farce;
you begin to hate on life

and breathe a bit
and feel
a little
free.