I'm grasping at the telltale signs
Of complete and utter disregard for my own existence
Swimming in the stale bathwater of hopelessness
And residual mercury poisoning from all my failed attempts
At life affirming alchemy
Only speak about myself in past tense
Trying to move beyond the archetypal daily grind
Every time I gain in life, I lose my mind
Wondering if I asked politely,
Would St. Augustine be praying for me
If I reach a day when the world I envision
No longer looks pear-shaped, and sorely mistaken
No more misguided hopes paper-clipped to paper airplanes
Launched from a hanger I squat inside
I will summon tremendous grace at the altar of convex truth
And say every day, praying in the rain
And every prayer that managed to rise above the bombarding raindrops
To leave Earth for somewhere to be tallied, annotated & filed into the gothic remains of Metatron's akashik records was a moment well spent
But for now I fold hope neatly in my pocket for another day
Copyright © 2011 Rev. Bob Fiedler
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