From the vistas of my alone place,

I survey the Creator’s mysterious trace,

And I find myself asking like an 

Ancient scribe,

Complete with a rambling diatribe…

Who are we?

What are we to be?

Show me, oh, show me, please?

Don’t mean to be a bother,

But I can’t help but wonder, 

Sometimes desperately…

Some can just chill,

Take life’s innocuous pill,

But not I.

No, never I…

For, while the others clip

And skip on to absolute nowhere,

Here I must sit, dangling my feet from 

A lonely mountaintop,

Seeking purpose in the caverns down there,

Sorrowing at people’s shrugging devil-may-care,

Raising my head to the star-pricked skies,

In silent tears demanding why…

And I can’t stop this sensation

That I’m always just waiting 

In the never-ending 

Vestibules of time,

Stuck pondering if the punishment 

Truly fits the crime,

And if there’s really

Any reason or rhyme

To an aging prophet’s way.

I mean, perhaps, I could let the truth 

Stay away another day,

Shoo the quizzical fly buzzing inside

And just leap forward to join the

Mighty pointless mudslide.

But, something within me simply  

Cannot find a way to abide.

Something in me cannot hide the

Distaste for the foolish ride.

Something in me will never cease to

Be the one off to one side,

Mourning and outpouring

Life’s unspeakable cries…

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