One-hundred years and still nothing.
A frenzy of fiction, hindered sight.
A will to scripture, to all that arrogant belief.
Belief in self-doubt, and belief in saviour.
In the depreciation of all sinners.
In the hatred of ideology.
So, what? Unrivalled, unquestioned devotion to theology.
Sense in the matter, it seems insane.
Sinner? We’re all sinners…
Don’t doubt that orphaned realisation.
For the night is always night.
And darkness is always darkness.
In those tree’s of forests, no man lays.
Shrouds of bewitched moss, inanely cackling.
Leering at the mumblers; those who don’t commit.
Bedroom, bed, resignations of thumb-sucking.
The living of praying, and the praying to live.
A predicament arisen in the act.
The simple going of ways.
You write about what was, definite, insatiable.
Forgetting what is, what’s yet to come.
Working to live, and living to work.
Home, knees, hoping for some eternal light.
Belief in nothing certain, nothing self-found.
And too – words are just words.
All things go all ways; they must.