March 31, 2016, 8:45 p.m.

It's another evening

Snug in the lap of solitude,

And as the sky descends into darkness

In God's laziness

I notice the time, and my cat

Languidly closing and opening his eyes

And looking the other direction.

These are the times when I think of things

Like that we are all

Tethered to typecasting

By life,

Waiting on real and

Falling to pieces in something like a war

But which is only

The work week.

How it shevles our dreams

And replaces them with tax forms.

How we as good citizens

Give up on so much

Just to support children.

How we allow lovers to pass

Through our lives

Like the changng of trains

At the station;

Complete and utter changes

In life stories

At the flick of God's fingers.

How I

Gave up on all of this,

Simply all of this,

Just to be an amateur poet.

And I think of Socrates forming

The Socratic method,

And there is some wisdom to this for writers:

True inspiration doesn't always come to you.

Sometimes you have to churn it out,

Go fishing, throw

The chum in the water

And wait for sharks.

And other times

The poem just ends.

That's a thing more accurate to life, anyway,

And tragedy.  The knot

Isn't usually tied neatly in the end.

The tragedy I know is a different kind of suffering.

There is no crook to catch.

The victim simply gets sick

Due to a genetic trait

And you medicate the symptoms

But you never really get better.

And sometimes you stand there

Like you have dropped a glass

Peering through your hands, wondering,

What became of my life?

But God doesn't answer these moments

Because these are not prayers,

These are curses upon the devil.

It's when you truly understand you have fallen

That faith become fact, not

Empty hope.

And it's when you truly believe

That the devil become a real thing,

And you realize the breath of the fall.

And it's at this time when you begin

To worship, and end poems such as these

Not with a, "The end,"

But an amen.  For

If for that moment your ship capsizes

There is always the next moment,

And you give the former to God, and

You roll over in your half-slumber

And dream, just as innocently as you did before,

Once again.

It's these dreams that comprise a life

From point a to point b.  Dreams

That never go recorded, that are

Only recorded

In the amber fields of heaven.

Perhaps, someday, we find them again.

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