When course of time has its way,
and spits into the wind,
like so much other skinned debris,
history will say,
the spiritual dimension
a bit of attention gives to any emotion
outweighs the quizzical posit
of ‘Did’ or ‘Did not,’
the quest of the inured What
did you mean by that?
The rhetorical
bite of an overhanging doubt
or an undercutting fear:
for the top of the food chain, if
rumor holds, we as beings are a fragile
bunch. And temporary,
too, for all that, despite
the outsourcing of our souls
to hydrodynamics and cereal bowls;
nothing original in that,
placed here
as a thought to quid pro quo
from the beginning of this apologia
to this awkwardly
misplaced middle:
there you have it:
we stand our souls
for a literary device,
knowing that causality is an emptied wish:
like you,
we’ll only take
a moment to consider the implications
of this wordful strategy,
and it might give us pause
of where the line between
irony and repentance resides,
the space beneath
sentence and inked transcendence;
but it might not.
Because our voice no longer lifts
itself to what was heaven
we will not be heard
above the din, effective
today. Or tomorrow.
It’s so hard to say
in this age of instant access
and on-demand aimlessness.
We simply never know
where it’ll go, and if we did,
we would die.
It would kill us
to see, to know: if God’s dead,
it’s because He knew
too much, and someone…
…or, or, something…
put a price on His head –-
one moment guarding His children,
keeping us from harm’s way,
performing mundane maintenance:
the next? He sleeps
with the fishes, or He’s buried
out by the turnpike, or He’s
in a pillar under the bridge.
We split the difference
on the over/under.
The adage about ‘old gods
telling no tales’ isn’t true;
by the way, neither
is the one about setting
something you love free,
and it returning.
Closer to home,
once it’s gone, it’s
gone.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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