Numbers stun me
letters numb me
postscripts let me down
why can't it all be black and white
why can't I just sit tight and wait
until it all comes clear to me?

I can see my exodus in chapter fifty eight
which is not quite halfway through this book I write
but that's alright
I think I'll cope
just pencil in the margins a little bit of faith and hope
some charity for clarity ,we all need that.

It leaves one feeling flat though,
when the thought to go before the book is wrote and read,
means only one thing.
One being,being dead.

I might rewrite,
I do not know where the story in this tome will go
and if I did would my pencil do as it is bid
or would it wander off alone
to atone in scratchings on the slate before it is wiped clean
or is it all too late?
Sit tight and wait?
that's what I'll do until the writing's through and I break through into the other side,
slide those curtains open wide
and view the library of my life.