Counting time, a spell, like i used to do,
but questions surface, now, fast enough,
to be answered by His chosen few,
people inspired by the right stuff—
the progression, forward, to endless life.
so, i ask, with the best of intentions,
if, perhaps, i’m overcome with strife,
then what happens to His permissions,
my gateway to a life worth living?
Luckily, for me, I’m sheltered from hate,
but the world out there is not forgiving,
and there’s no one left for me to date,
so i live on his recriminations,
thoughts that keep me locked in the past,
and, by all accounts and estimations,
leave me feeling dirty and harassed.
But i count the seconds anyhow,
waiting to see who, and what, will emerge,
someone, hopefully, that i might endow,
that will change the world that i purge.
So i found myself thinking of the sauce,
a channel, without question, to my mate,
but really the booze would become the boss,
and i’d get sick, unhappy, and equate
this life with damnation—to an end.
If only this were heaven and i could drink
without the sickness i’m forced to tend,
when, ultimately, i can’t dream or think,
and i’m forced to abandon my faith.
Well, my faith is the only thing that keeps
me from backsliding, forming a wraith,
a ghost that has no future as he leaps
from one cowpie and onto the next—
determined to stink up this house of mine,
a place that harbors what He’s vexed,
when, otherwise, i might think i’m fine,
going, as some do, in the life to come,
to an infinitesimal point, meaning
nothing, anymore, but a forgotten sum,
what adds up to nothing but His loss,
thinking that, for good, He’d made a friend,
another person that would understand
that His life, in faith, will never end,
and nothing, because of that, is out of hand.
Yet the hair and the alcohol that i’ve lost,
point, somehow, to a depreciated state,
disassociated from those that we’d accost,
if, in fact, being bad would be first rate,
and we could be wise and forever young,
without His church to make us weep
for choosing a bell that already rung,
and will never ring again. Off to sleep,
then, at the same time, minus the juice,
minus the oblivion that i’d abuse,
being subject to a scientific noose
that would keep me from the life i choose.