As I grow older, my distress is more with me,
more than ripest foliage and shadows of fall,
time and circumstance make it hard to see
that there might be more than pain’s illegible scrawl,
that fate promises more age to age
beyond each day’s pale, disquieting throes,
the aubade with its chirring cadence seeks to assuage
my fears but I dismally cling to my lows.
Praying for a sense of rightness to prevail
seems offensive to the nature of things
in a world where madness condemns with righteous voices.
I look for hope, but I just thresh and flail,
I wish for a naïveté that inaudibly sings
in hope’s soothing key of blessings, purpose, and choices.
Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash
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