Oh God, my pen Stands poised to write: But of what? Praise and thanks Are hollow on my lips, Foreign tongues Unnatural to a soul Schooled in more selfish ways. These same lips Long for the sweetness Of days long past, Times when I knew not How much I did not know. So it was When the angels Came to me. I could not see Them, but Knew they were there Just the same. Yet, my soul was lame, As well as blind, Confined to clay so Thick and dark That all loveliness Was without, While all within Did spin In darkness near Absolute. Oh chuck it all! Why do I Write this nonsense Anyway? To ease A mind still blind, That has nought to do Save babble In its own dark Shadows? Perhaps. Emerson says We stand In our own light And thus cannot see. I wish He were I and I were he! Should I make so bold As to stand Before your throne, One foot upon Its golden dais resting, And ask For Life to be My way? Life isn't like The Burger King... Oh gentle, patient God; Don't You tire of me And all the millions I am like, Who come to You To beg? Don't Your eternal ears Weary of our endless Blather, about How we'd rather You had made us? No wonder You sent that flood! But writing Doesn't stop The wanting, the Remembering. No, The same old soul Still grumbles Just like before. Maybe--someday-- I'll know What it is I'm really grumbling for!
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