sipping hemlock

being middle-aged, like the Middle Ages

with all its plagues,

seems so intimate with death

 maybe that's because I failed so many times 

when I should have known better 

so the easy way out 
seems to be a pill much less bitter

i swallow..

 and I find myself more and more often

 questioning the most high, and wondering why

 he made me solo

 and then brought me  down so low

 my past seems superficial

 my future tastes artificial

 and humiliation has a flavor that clings in my throat

 like a noose with a tailor-made collar

 and the voice I thought was God's

 has turned out to be only my very own

 i finally realize that all of this time I've truly living real LIES

 hardly the faithful servant

  and itall seems such a cruel joke

 and an utter waste of time -

 time that I no longer want to spend

 So, I sit here feeling done and un-done

 having failed every-one and then some...

 I have not been, nor do I have in my heart

 anything that is close to "enough"

 right now, I'm not sure if I know how to -

 or even on whom - to - rely

 would I even recognize

 His voiceif my prayer was to even get a reply?

...IF it actually happened,

 I sure do now understand why

 that Christians claim Jesus would beg and cry

 And cast his futile despair into the middle of the sky

 I used to believe...

 but now I know that Miracles 

are just a trick of the ego

 the prestidigitation of an arrogant soul

 and at some point,

 its walls must crumble

 from having been built on Shaky Ground

 so I find myself on an island -Bridges burned with-flames dancing all around

 Even my own daughter does not miss her father

 and I feel so cut off from the world, how easily it seems then

 just cut deeply into an artery

like the first piece of cake eaten on my

very last birthday

 spit at my candles a final breath as i watch my Visions fade away

Like the blood slipping out of my veins like a one night stand

preparing for that walk of shame

i tell myself it would be so easy

Simply stick a muzzle in my mouth

 contemplate the taste of nickel plate

 as my life flashes before my eyes

 I wouldn't even care

 What those I left behind even think about me

Eating the last supper of narcissism

 Let judgment be their business

 a business no longer evenmine to mind

 but then...

 the moment of truth comes calling...

And it Seems to always have a hammer like John Henry

and then

 Clarity hits me like a pandemic

and mutates into irony

Perhaps...

Perhaps I've just always been a coward

 daring to play God, yet ultimately

 unable to take away

 that which I had no ability to even make

 oh now how I wrestle even with Consequence

 Like Jacob grappling the Angel of death 

And The irony is not lost to me,

 That the longer I Ponder,

The more time I have to create more questions,

 That the more desperate I become

 the harder I end up searching for the answers

 

 And then, I start to feel

the deeper that my wounds go 

The stronger than my scars will grow

 Isn't it ironic indeed:

That the more desperate I become,

The more I struggle  to survive

The tighter I squeeze on the neck of

Izra'iil just to stay alive?

Isn't it ironic...?

 How,  the harder after death I run...

The more inevitable life actually becomes.? ...