Implication (poem)

Implication: that metre doesn't matter
If you bleed art and swallow passion.
And what of rhyme? Well, milk of Poppy
Semi-synthesised has siblings to copy—
It works when I want it to. But you,
You never seem to mind. I find
That no one seems to care when you aren't yourself
But love the benefits. Those benefits must be shared—
At least with the future. Who am I to deprive
The world of its secret weapon? In that
Lies the one almost-moral dilemma:
Is a man allowed to take without giving?
By accepting his birth, must he repay those who reared him?
I no longer care to answer. All I know
Is that I exist for the future. Whoever you are,
I wish you well—if you live half the life
Or feel half the ecstasy that sets me free.
There's no question we do the right thing
By aiming the gun away from us. (No, don't put it down.
You never know when you might need it.)
— You can feel the body tire long before the mind.
But what do bodies matter? No one ever lost a limb
Who did not feel thankful that they remained,
Though their phantom pain lingered longer.
I see you—forget the yawn—we who used to know each other.
I'd ask you if you are happy, but I know it doesn't matter.
A transient state has no effect on two tectonic plates
Destined to pull apart. — That's you and I.
Two people never can be trusted to remain united.
But that's nothing, for everyone has themselves. And in that, and there
Lies the real answer to every otherwise-meaningless prayer.