Exile
i am lost
in the conflagration of spirit
where no philosophy abounds.
yet i love.
where are the people i crave?
am i a monster?
crafted and bolted
for purposes i can not accept?
there is yet much of God’s beauty left our great country
even in the midst of ever advancing devastation.
and there are so many who see this beauty at all costs.
but i have known so many who have felt the indifferent stare.
for them beauty is stale food
escape from the roaming gangs
a simple drip from the ceiling that stays within its catch-pan
and the eager smile of their precious infant who does not starve today.
God is dead, they say.
but the Invisible Hand thrives.
even in despair
It picks what It needs
toward Grand Assimilation,
to which i will never submit.
yes, i write today.
at least
one more day.
but i join in nothing.
yet i love.
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