Tongue-tied to the alter of my
Opinions. Reaching feudally for a god
I will never know, mastering only
My simple logic, I manage but a few odd
Words:
Is this why we toil?
Caught inexplicably between hopes still
Begging for fulfillment and unfulfilled
Dreams wishing for their final resting
Place, I consider the withering seeds I’ve sown
Year after year, day after day.
Endless in their return, virgin in
Their awakening, they wave anxiously
In the breeze, full of mindless chaff
Expecting to be set adrift with the other
Fallen leaves of
For another unsuspecting generation of
Idyllic wanderers.
Are they all lost in their own salvation
These creatures of capitalizm’s Christ?
Theirs is a wilderness without bushes that
Burn, without mountains that bear truth,
With plagues of their own making and
With a holy of holies where god no
Longer lives.
How I wish for one of God’s mirrors
To reflect his glory
How I hope for one of God’s songs
To sing the praises
Of their creator. I imagine somewhat faintly
His
Waves of peace toward my
Isolated, iconoclastic hardened heart.
I am lost in the place where so many
Are found. I am tired in the place
Where so many have rested. I fight
Like Jacob did his Angel when so
Many have simply seen their God.
Anxious, but burdened with doubt, I whisper sad
Nothings to no one, for no reason that I can
Think of, to anyone who
Can understand the faint echoes that
Struggle to escape from my soul.
The alter of opinion begs for a high priest of
Understanding and for the sacrament of
Knowledge.
I sacrifice nothing yet all I have.
This then is hell.
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