My Quiet
I stare - a sightless man - into space.
Some time ago, the fire quietly failed in my eyes.
I draw dead breath through weary lungs.
My blood curdles in my veins.
And I am cold.
And alone.
And it is quiet.
Just what I've been desiring so desperately.
Not to sing or dance or laugh or converse
of the fleeting joys of life-
but to be left to my own confused designs.
My tale is not unique.
Like countless artists gone before,
I create without genuine hope of being understood.
Except by you, O God.
My omniscient creator.
Was it really such a fine idea to fashion me?
What have I done with the gift of life?
How can any future worth seeing be built upon
this failed foundation?
This confused, self-tortured, hypocritical,
weak, pathetic shadow?
Even now, hope remains, somehow.
Why it stays I do not know.
By all rights it should abandon me.
Have I not abandoned myself long ago?
O, my God-
I ought to have changed the world for you.
But now I have my quiet.
2024-10-27 finished by 3:20 PM
Copyright © J. I. Thomas F. | Year Posted 2024
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