Toast

If my affections leave a bitter taste
after my rhyme for reason comes across
a wire, to trip, to slip a noose in haste,
to love unloved much longer is no loss.

Our reason’s raison d’être is not our own.
Impersonal, we think, “Whatever works,”
to give a fuck, `fore all that’s aft is bone.
Then, if it sticks, at least we share some quirks.

We rarely speak a single word of sense.
I’ve touched the wound, as sure as I am damned.
The feet are sparse; the crown atop is dense.
Re-read your eulogy, before you’re scammed.

The parts we will recall, and miss the most,
are less for God, and more like morning toast.