Please forgive the fact that this poem isn't very good. I haven't really focused on writing lately, and this is my first attempt in a while. Either way, I hope you like and understand the sentiment!
The Speed of After
In tragedy, we sweat and breathe heavy
and beg speed in the stock-taking of internal emotions.
We take external cues, gauging our
internal temperature against the
heat and stony cold of faces.
Expression belies the frantic need to
expel something. Spitting it out
before you're sure it's right, but
feeling every scintilla, every molecule
of it, as you expel the thing
for all the world to view.
And for as little time as it took to
form and express, you begin fiercely
defending this feeling. Embracing
those in agreement. Erasing those opposed.
There is a speed to emotions, a
vibration, as there is with all things.
We excitedly experience lust and
anger and celebration and
all the ones they talk about feeling
on TV. Those are the easy ones.
The slower ones - grace, peace,
humility - are pills too large
for the untrained esophagus.
In tragedy, there is a bad guy
and a Good. And sometimes the bad guy dies
and sometimes the Good is harmed - as a
consequence or unfortunate result.
It is then that I feel fast, wishing it were slower.
Wishing I were Zen.
Except Zen would mean not feeling either.