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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