It's Better Than Nothing

It didn't make sense. Not now. Not to you.

The story was just too horrific to be true,

But if it really did happen, it would have been quick.

I suppose that's better than nothing.

The fury clawed its way out of my lungs.

If this had to be real, if there was nothing to be done,

Then I would try to burn everything down with my tongue.

I railed against a world that would bear you away

On the wings of your own demons,

But what I railed against most was me,

The so-called man who might have seen something,

But most certainly did nothing.

I didn't make the healthiest scapegoat, either,

But I guess I was better than no one.

I begged in the short term for time's fruit, understanding.

Not finding it, I wondered what I should be doing,

and agreed, to myself, that this will never happen again,

That there would be no me if there was anyone in need,

That this mistake was the last one I had in me.

There's nothing so deadly as a deal with an angel,

A loan against time that I'd already borrowed,

A desperate, delaying denial of some horrible inevitable,

Which I guess is better than nothing.

At the failure of the futile path that I chose,

My one true talent did itself soon disclose.

Not so good at a little bit of help,

I showed some aplomb for get-the-hell-out,

and I wrote a new set of rules for failure:

Once–try harder, twice–hide.

I suppose it was better than nothing.

So now, on a path ten years in the traveling,

I have achieved at least some measure of understanding.

It never should have happened, but it did.

Death's not half as deadly as living with it.