A time to speak to matters unintelligible
The calendar of my hours spins
like a maddened dartboard.
I throw my missiles of choice
and can no more detect where they land
than where I find their resupply.
Is this life becoming waste
I do not bid to place blame nor fault.
I do not think myself unusually cursed or maligned
by forces unseen.
I just wonder,
is this life of mine to be the average of mediocrity
What record of worth will I leave behind.
What presence of achievement do I carry with me
but these dry, dirt stained hands,
but the fruits of a garden long decayed,
but words left to settle like dust in the road,
but midnight laughter forgotten with the morning meal.
Is my triumph the delay of mortal tragedy
Can inspiration survive,
persist, lie, lay flat, and reemerge
with the next season of rain.
Is my love amphibious.
Do I croak needlessly
in bogs without depth
in deserts without sun.
Did Nathan know the bottom of the world
was waiting for him.
Is there a method to this madness,
or is this method beyond mad,
insane before onset psychosis,
lost before any thought of origin.
I know pain and love and weariness
and lust and hunger and boredom
and whiles and smiles and forever feeling
of her skin.
I know nothing of what belongs to this destiny.
I am in danger of losing grip on the divination of my divinity.
I speak this warning, and alert my soul.
