The Apocalypse of Thomas Robert Liam M. Fitzgerald

Found this stored in my email from about 2 years back. I have no recollection of writing it.... but its interesting to look back on. Enjoy.

WARNING* its very t.s. eliot/wasteland-ish in that everything is an obscure reference to who knows what. lol.

"The Apocalypse of Thomas Robert Liam M. Fitzgerald"

a quivering gasp
and a turbulent shout.
these were the sounds left ringing
in his soft and innocent ear.

yet in the realization that Eliot was wrong
that this was much worse than any whimper
or bang
he knew it was not the end all.
end of all. all of the end.
wrapped up in a single moment of passionate distaste

this diluted frame, this recycled mess
could only mirror the world that gave it life
and vigor to exist once more.
or more and more again.

the last frontier?
no. not here. for here is simply there
with a renaissance of hope.
the less hope, the better.
well at least for those zombies on Sunset
who ache and crave the coast.

we reuse speech
and breath cyclical air - a poison by any other name
would smell as sweet. sweet and apathetic to the lungs of those
who dared to dream.

a dream so far deferred. yet ignorant to the flame.

Speaking of the flame.
I remember the Moulin Rouge.
Seen first from the window of Giovanni's smoky room .
Now, seen only in pictures and the minds
of those who can
can.

And like the dance, and like the Rogue
all has turned to dust.
The lidless eye has engulfed the world
and I somehow still seek to
disect the reason, why.

I should not think.
I should not know.
I should be asleep
or at least, at peace
A not in a world of was.
This is all too much for you to understand.
And yet you do.
You do.
.... and yet.

We see the world in a grain of sand
and heaven in a wild flower,
but to hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and eternity in an hour
makes a life beyond life impossible to conceive
yet difficult to leave behind.

But I can tell you this:
The end is not the end
just as birth is not the beginning.
To die is to dream,
a dream of endless catharsis.
And this,
well this is just the climax of a people
gathered in song, and united in sight.

You can choose to fight
or you could choose to run
but one thing you cannot choose
is to choose to choose -
an irony built on the ego
of Langston Hughes,
still on the Brooklyn Bridge,
still screaming the bluest of blues.

The here and now
is the there and then
only much more temporary
and much less desired.

The grass is greener
where you water the grass
and now, at last,
we can drink in the rain that falls from below
and we can begin to grow.

I rot, in Worms -
my body left for Death.
And in the knowledge of pain
I shed just one tear.

A tear for Martin Luther,
both King and Servant,
who spoke of change in a world of consistent hate.

A tear for Patroclus,
who's death finally showed dear Achilles
that the heart is much more vulnerable
than an ankle, or hand.

A tear for Rosencrantz,
who lost his Guildenstern
somewhere on the sea -
who could no longer bear to be
so close and yes so utterly far from the shore.

And a tear, yes.. a tear...
for Pippin and his song.
Which echoed so far
and for so long
that even Daivd LaChapelle heard of the pain
in the intolerable instant
of the first photo his camera ever shot.

The men bred from cacti
and the soldiers of doom
come for me now, to bring me to the dawn.

And when I am gone

yes, when I am gone
think of me as you will.

Your will can and will
bring me back to the light
And when we embrace again,
I hope you hold me just as tight.