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
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.? ...
