Friday Morning, 3a.m.

"Your voice is small and fading,
and you hide in here unknown,
and your mother loves your father,
'cause she's got nowhere to go.

And she wonders where these dreams go,
'cause the world got in her way;
what's the point in ever trying,
nothing's changing anyway.

And I wonder where these dreams go,
when the world gets in your way;
what's the point in all this screaming,
no-one's listening anyway."
-- Goo Goo Dolls, Acoustic #3


A wise man once said that, "God is everywhere and always, except with you at three in the morning." At the time I disagreed; it is telling that now, I can't remember why.


NUNC DIMITTIS

Yesterday on Heaven's stair
we met a God who wasn't there;
He wasn't there for us today
I wish, I wish, He'd go away.

What is life but a string of accidents
in the history of an accidental race,
two opposing thumbs that set us apart
so we can brag of love, morality,
a blip on the lifeline of existence
that justifies itself with insane gods.
To love and let love becomes criminal,
a sin against the nature of ourselves,
whose petty fears we mingle into God:
belief in Life when life is all we get,
the clinging straws of mankind's final clutch.

And when the best of us is proven not enough,
when all we are is witness to a crime
we perpetrate by giving less and less
to generations written off as lost
by sad-faced men in well lit rooms of prayer,
then shall the German's Psalm be echoed out as true
and God is Dead perfume the halls of atheists
with books like 'Jesus Christ: a sinner's life'
and questions like a world of dead-eyed sons
who beat their crosses back to swords and say,
"perhaps, perhaps, He wasn't there at all."