Take me…

When the beginning returns, and the young babe learns to speak wise,
The fires burn, consume what we earn, and mar the face of disguise.
Only then will some second guess, others say I told you so, and still others who have not a clue what to do. But not I. I will sit on the edge of the sidewalk with a vacant stare, hands in my palms as I weep. In a fit near the ledge, above an outline of chalk, wondering what promises to keep. I can feel the minutes seeping away, my breath draw to close as I run. I can feel the same pain day after day, until closing moment from moment begun. Mozier asks to be taken to church, Jay Z commands to take them to church, but I already feel bad enough and don’t want to go. Have I hugged for real in the last two months? Have I bled and connected with earth? Have I felt joy in the deepest sense even once? Have I felt the unending sense of worth? Who is petty, and fickle? Who draws my soul completely out at the small rate of a trickle? Can a benevolent God know me, my purpose, and pain, that only seem to subside for a while? These items of mine no more divine than the dew on the grass by a smile. No less than the clouds in the sky, no more than the soil of shoes. But the people still congregate in groups and crews, and I am still left to choose. This comes to be a development within the confines of theatre and art. But also combines with the loss of not being with her, and not playing my proper part. A deep, unrelenting, bewildering sense of contentment, regardless of circumstance can characterize joy. A child’s birth can leave us speechless at worst. Our high can pass, though troubles amass, were left anticipating the burst. No errors. Faster speed. Putting up with the choir for now. We have the pieces to give us releases, but E.T. Cannot call or forgot how. Help me sleep before the day that rises will meet me with tomb. I want to go back in time, to before I was even in womb. I want to go back and disconnect. To remove myself from the plan. I want to never be. I’m sure God will understand.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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