Richard J. Severson

Life can’t bear the burdens of meaning
we place upon it. Can it?

Where is the serum to heal a broken heart? The sermon
to reconcile me to my despair? Is it even possible
to enjoy a simple meal without callously turning away
from the surfeit suffering of having been born? Everywhere
I turn I’m dancing in the dark, Springsteen’s lament.

The passion of youth, love is worthy of poetry, yet
inconsolably fickle in its application (or steadfast goodness).

Existence is a cold fish, uncaring of my worries. I wrestle with
this putative indifference to find a safe haven in this strange life that leads only to death. God, is there nothing more to be done?