when I can’t stretch past
that feeling of dissolving in boredom and uselessness,
that tired irritation of who has time for this,
that forgetting what it is I’ve forgotten,
that weak fear I’m being held in a locked room;
when I can’t look at the way my life is going
and see a movement toward something,
or a progression,
or a growing,
or at least a getting somewhere;
when I look at the world and see
uncaring, slow, and stupid,
with no spirit, no light, and no love,
just delusion, illusion, scams, and cons,
and the same old same old suck it up;
then I stand in a vacant lot and raise my face to the murky clouds above
the used and useless city and I cry out to God, Deliver me, deliver me, for I am dying,
and with my first real tear He appears as a clean breeze, a child of the air;
He appears as a molten shaft of sun, an angel; He appears as a stranger stopping to shield her eyes with her hand, calling out, Are you okay? Hey, mister, are you okay?
And I am.
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