Attempts at Happiness

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I met a man who said he

prefers truth and suffering over ignorance and bliss. 

Thinking truth to be a suffering, 

he confided that which he knoweth unto himself

and sealed it up with a kiss. 

Senseless death always imminent

for someone in the world

Myths are myth

when criticized closely, 

their flaws unfurled. 

"Let them have their fairy tale!" 

he'd say with confidence. 

He'd endure what truth unveiled

without recompense. 

For truth is man the animal,

at the core, a bear, 

a drive to dominate, to kill, 

to copulate, to populate, to 

set domain over feminine thrill. 

Animal and man are the same monster, 

one glorified and purified by institutions, 

illusions, granting infinite meaning, 

ignoring

man's place as a pawn in the evolutionary scheme. 

All these thoughts upsetting, 

sealed up in a tube. 

He was neither a religious man nor 

leftist ideologue. 

       No identity, no illusion, 

       No conformity, no inclusion, 

Yet he did not admit these things. 

For a while he'd make the inexplicable choice

to have truth and suffer 

while he wished not on others

 the same. 

Why did he want such for himself? 

I don't know. 

That info

 is sealed tight, 

kept on a shelf

above the bed he lay in, 

in the house that burns down. 

The fire whispers

but does not speak.