Apathist

If Mary died to syphilis,

Would it have all been part of god’s plan?

Or would it just be His Ignorance,

His omnipotent apathy,

For which she died?

I suppose the first’s too easy an excuse,

But there is no rehab for the opiate of masses.

And if epiphanies should come,

They are cured like rashes,

Ignored until they die.

They will not care until the pain is real,

And lying naked on their doorstep,

Bred of oblivious indifference.

And I suppose that’s the worst of it, indifference.

I am no cultist,

Nor an activist,

I am an Apathist.

I ran from that excuse,

Driven from the opiate,

I created my own side effects,

Without the high

Stained walls of blurred colored ‘sight’.

No, Instead I slept with apathy.

I was not happy, I was indifferent.

I flat lined in that same bed.

So here is my epiphany:

My fears, my realities, and all those things

I can never change,

I have had enough.

I’m tired of apathy,

And Skeptic of god’s plan.

I’m afraid he’s left the wheel for the sirens.

I’m afraid it’s too late.

I believe that one day,

At this rate,

We will lie down to accept our fate,

Lethargic in the face of death.

The flood again, of apathy not anger.

And the world will come anew,

And they will ask,

Why, like the Mayans,

We just gave up.

And their Lao Tzu will say onto them:

“they died without purpose,

Virgins to syphilis”