Lord, people
	Just go on living,
	Dying--and
	I just keep crying,
	For what
	I don't even know
	Anymore.
	In a mind
	Once clear
	As a mountain lake,
	There seems
	Nothing left to take,
	Nothing there
	But polluted ache.
	All my dreams
	Show their seams,
	The flimsy threads
	Which bind them
	Too loosely
	To a battered brain.
	O Lord!  The pain
	Comes from
	Not understanding
	From whence comes
	The pain!
	It is cruel
	To hurt
	For no good reason.
	And if I must,
	Why had I
	A season
	Of joy in the sun,
	Of love where
	Moonbeams run?
	Is every day
	A little dying,
	All my crying
	Just my life
	Slowing running down?
	At least tell me,
	God, what my
	Running down is for!

7/20/79

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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