Poet's Corner


Posted: Thursday, February 21, 2008

Why don't I start with a simple question?

Are we waiting to die or be woken

from this asphyxiating congestion

that haunts us, holds us, makes us those broken?

I had a dream once. Dreams are pretty things.

I don't remember what it was I dreamed,

only that I dreamed. Now a feeling clings

that somewhere, our hope for a moment gleamed

and was gone before there was time to see,

and now we are lost. We are the lost men.

When I was young, I heard a prophecy

of hope, but now we are God's forgotten.

Behold. The young are the light of our time

before they ripen to the old, sagging

backs that bare the color of lemon rind,

and walk like sad dogs without tails wagging.

We are those failed children no one mentions,

taking more time meant for a destiny

on which we never took any lessons,

but still, we look for where our blessings be.

Perhaps a holocaust, or God's mercy

would be the best for a mistaken life

like the one I lead better than cursing

myself for missing the one-time train my

angel gifted to an unwizened youth.

After all my pains, I sit down to cry

like a boy with no money for his tooth.

I know that no matter how hard I try,

I need a savior, but nobody comes.

Like the babe, wailing in the night, I call

to a god who no longer shows he loves

but instead lets me ball, and ball, and ball.

We are the lost men lost in the darkness.

Though we yearn an end, or new beginning,

not even God's death angel can find us,

so we count the days, though so unwilling.

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