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Photo by Larisa Birta on Unspalsh

Here, suspended in eternity,
And lost
In isolation of taproot beliefs.
And left, my self, alone
To discover whether
Value must lie within one,
An absolute good,
Condemning all others
To desperate failure at Right.
Are life and God
So poverty-stricken
That they must pen my energy,
A part of themselves,
Within one set
And depth-denied path?
Or is depth to be defined
By that which denies its nature
While drinking inexorably
All of its flood?
Am I good or truth-betrothed
In and of myself,
Or only because
I happen to endorse
Another’s creed of “life”?
Why must I believe the Now
To be so empty or so tinsel-laden
That I must only look, but never see,
Touch, but never feel?
Must I forsake the Now
For an ever-promised After
Which will hold me
Within its meaning: full?
And is living to be right or wrong,
Or does Man’s conception
Of (his) world impose
A never-actual shadow
Upon it all?
Life lives,
But Man must laugh and cry.
Why, evermore, why?
Is living on this plane
With all of life
So wrong
That I must yet deny it all
And wait ……………… and wait?
And if my place is there,
Then what is here?
Sometimes I wonder:
Do I have a place at all?
And why must here
Be foreign to His there?
Is here not His as much?
Can it be empty, dark or lost,
And therefore made to be denied,
And touched but once,
When all that others say is worth
Is gone?
Must life be so akin to death?

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