Going

Teeter-tottering on the edge of reason,
Wondering how long it will be until
The knife cuts deep into my opaque resolve.
Is there not long to go?
I can feel the dial turning on my clock,
An emotion switches to another.
Back here I am sitting, waiting,
For the last thing to go wrong next
And for me to fall in a straight line
Of repair, recovery, reset, repression,
Until there's just about nothing left.

Because, let's face it,
What really matters doesn't matter
And what doesn't really matter matters.
So is the web spun, twisted.
Why would we say we want it different
When we expect it always this way?

Such is how God delivers the goods.
Feastingly, our mouths: open garages
With vans of servitude parked inside.
Ready to be taken for a spin
Outside the parking lot
On the soaked roads at night
With the streetlights mirrored
In the darkened flesh of the ground.
There can't be any people here
Except cameramen and the
Director.

That's right, Him.

I don't blame him for tragedy
For two reasons:
One, it is not my blame to attribute and
Two, I cannot attribute blame where it is not.
If a guilty man were to sleep
He would sleep with his blame
And no woman nor man,
Could take it upon themselves.
No one lets go of their cross
And we carry them on our backs
In the heaviness of pain
With the anger of blame.
Imperfect tools.

After all, the weight will break our bodies
Not in a literal sense
Because that wouldn't make sense.
We'll all be smiling in heaven
In the metaphysical bliss
That's, oh, oh, so close
That you can feel it more and more.

Teeter-tottering on the edge of reason,
I'm finding no answer where none is supplied.
Riding in the front seat,
I can pretend that I am going,
But the truth is
I don't know how to drive.

The great lesson I am learning is that
The less and less I struggle to survive,
The more and more I know I am alive.
That's why I never wrote the script,
Just followed the directions.