Your
pathological
Lies

Will never lead
you to
the Truth
my friend

I say this because
I know

For many reasons
Impossible

Though my path
at the time..
was never that
Logical

For all I have
Is just a wandering Egø
but not many
PrOphETS to
find

So at best
I'm just a Prodigal Son
Who's on the
Run

Or just
An empty module
that's been
cast to the
Side

Therefore
now in which
was condemned and
condensed

Recompensed to
Repent

Fixed

In little pockets
of
Pride

So I guess that's why
I wear this fur coat
to favor me

Right?

Or so
it seems

Although it seems?

I don't believe in
Animal
Rights

Nah..

But that can't
be
Right

Maybe selfish
thinking?

Or maybe thinking
that it will keep me
nice and warm
Like

When the nights
are Cold

Or maybe if I pray
The light will lead
me to
his grace
I'm told

To many places
Untold

So I guess
I must check
or at least let
the man behind
the veil
Unfold

That which
I do not know

Or at least let
him place my soul
Placed
Back in the
mold

With no actions
or expressions like
a Mannequin

Then pray once again
on my knees and
believe

That he will one day
truly make me
into

A
Man
again

the spaciousness of iceblue daylight
you're praying under a frozen olive tree
doubts overpower you: are you good enough?
proving, you scarify your skin with a shard

bourdeaux-red blood mirrors moon fields
the cold drink was frothing like sea spray
you're licking your lips, the sanatorium
snowwhite building, melting windows

if you should go there after prayer
not a question, you're walking right and left
the cold drinks were frothing, you remember?
you forgot it and you remember everything

the silver olive tree includes words
all whispered sticks to it, like dust
if you listen to that tree, you'll hear
hidden is its place among black rocks

I have called out often to you
and I have craved your intervention.
Never really sure if you exist at all,
I still sought for your attention.

I searched the faiths a many
and I have tried to understand.
What it was that I must do
to reach out to your open hand.

My faith has wavered greatly
as my time has ambled on.
Yet often did I pray to you,
though at times my faith had gone.

So many times did I reach for you
from the depths of my despair.
Hoping for some magic sign
that you were standing there.

I have looked upon the world and universe,
To see its beauty and its terrors too.
In some unseen and mystifying way,
these things all cry out a testament of you.

I have come to think that we,
are not at the centre of your plan.
Your universe so vast in purpose,
for the tininess of a single man.

Endless chaos and reconstruction,
on a scale that a lifetime can't comprehend.
Recycling endless matter,
on a path seemingly without an end.

Yet you gave me mind and time,
to see this snapshot of the plan.
Giving cause for hope that you can hear,
the prayers of this small man.

<>

11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.

when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,
it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,  
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
     beholden to everyone

how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.

Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard

premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.

The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.

(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are *******, suns of no man.)

Time moves so fast,
Im 24 at last,
Jesus our only saviour, has added a fresh new chapter within my life out of grace!

Im so lucky,
And feel bubbly,
How blessed I am to spend another birthday with my family no one can replace!

The skies have rendered everything a pale grey.
Not used to our own thoughts, the screams still ring in our ears.
We are all wandering under the ash rain, eyes low.
Nothing heard, nothing said.
There’s not much of us left, not much of anything.
After this agony, where will we go?

When these wounds heal, and the skies finally clear.

All we will have is a wasteland.