Lost Tool

My meditations strike me like a tomb. Not joyful, I know. But I am socially distant in social distancing. I am not stronger together. Nor am I stronger together alone. I am none of the cliches that the current Society wraps itself in and beds down with whichever camp they choose to sleep.

I understand more of the waters of knowledge than I can stand to drink anymore. I can't drink another ounce so now I drown. All the while hearing the voice of the Divine Announcer, "But wait there's more!"

Cancel culture? I've been canceled. Black lives matter? All but mine. All but invisible to all sides. Drowning, dying while the oblivious fight on. There will be something for them to win. I will probably live to see it. But I won't be part of it. What I dream to make me matter doesn't exist so now nor do I.

Yet another part of me atrophies and dies upon the cutting room floor. And yet still no one can say my name. "All those bleeding hearts, with sorrows to impart. Right there from the start. No, they won't go when I go." Every cycle feels like the last. surely it cannot go much lower, much longer.

So many below me. So many more above. One more smile, one more day. One more hope, one more try. One more lie to tell myself. My sleep has died and my dreams with it. Why has my fear stayed so alive and vivid, to stop me from following.

Who tells the more vivid story? The beautiful ones? Or the damned souls wishing and hoping for a savior? Which story means more to the Bard? The self-indulgent drunkards? Or the storyteller of a life without. Longing to be a life of plenty?

I turned to God and he was amused. I turned to the devil and he pitied me. where do I turn now? There is a certificate that bears a name that I was given. But at the age of enlightenment I was given another. And that name cannot be spoken by the lips. Only said through the spirit and heart. And in that I am unknown.

I have been beaten, cast out, and lied to. I have been misunderstood, misquoted, and underestimated. I have tried, I have surrendered, I have been punished. My conflicts have no end, there are no spoils to be victorious, and I am beyond tired.

Like a tool lost to the land I cry out! Maker come to me or unmake me! Maker, come to me! Unmake me!

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Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray to God to get some. 

If I die before I wake, I pray this act not treason.