Waking up, and facing up to His dread,
the facts we arrive at when people lie,
an army of devils around their head
to remind us that, in this life, we die.
The conclusion is that sorrow awaits
no matter how valuable we become—
our health, over time, slowly abates,
or, what’s worse, we amount to a sum
of cells fighting a losing battle,
barring an accident, or violence,
leading, of course, to a fractured hull,
death by drowning, without recompense—
just the horror that comes with zero time,
approaching, as it does, exponentially
quick, stopping, God help us, on a dime—
the end that forces us to be happy
that an end, finally, should come. I go
in search of salvation, feet on the ground,
thinking of all the things i don’t know,
as if, in knowing all that, i’d be found
at the top of the world. Can i help it
if my morning routine would be a stage
that suffers no great forthwith respite,
just the onslaught of my advancing age,
and all the things i failed to experience,
or, if I did, then for the wrong reasons,
driven by hypocrites here and hence,
a room full of verifiable Huns
telling me life without action must be
worthless, when, in fact, it is what it
needs to be—without opportunity
to do for the world as we might see fit,
doing the things others would have us do,
as if respect depended on something
more than Him—tantamount to a screw
turning round, ruining everything.
So, if i should drift, for a while, in
and out of consciousness, a little less
than what i’d be if I was ready again,
already, to face down the things we confess
to ourselves, having been left alone,
then i cannot blame myself or my maker,
the both of us left, to date, on our own,
living for our creations, and what we defer.