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!

11/1/79

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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