Yes, there’s a day for suffering,
for marking love’s dark mien.
Contorted faces bearing the cost of contingency and time.
There’s no reason to the grief,
there’s no cause for any tear.
Even the call to Private Ryan–Earn this!–
can’t elevate the squalor of our deaths.
We all end
in ridiculous deformations
of our former selves.
Whatever potency we pretend to
is buried with us in the grave.
So nail it up there for us to see.
Splay us on a tree with righteous indignity.
Reveal us for what we are–
rank imposters after glory.