The Fifty-Ninth Minute

 

 

     Don’t jump oh Lord,

Do not ponder expectations of living here,

Give yourself some room to manoeuvre

And sway instead the rhythm of life

As blues take an arbitrary hold,

For we are old and tired,

And sick of living lies.

    

     All our collective tears,

All our raging hysterics flowing

Salt, water, emotion,

Are not apparent for you to drown,

They are not relieved to pull

You under current;

For we all beckon your ship

When in crises,

We all want to clamber aboard;

To be pulled aboard and rescued

From this - ‘a dreaded fate.’

 

     Within this system

In this part of the Universe,

The ‘many’ come here as innocents,

And leave without knowing

Any reasons why,

     Truth,

Becomes only a finite

Drop of uncertainty within

An infinite sea of lies,

And so we cry

The never knowing

Until, a buoyant aid

Helps us keep afloat,

 

     That buoyant aid -

As air slips by,

As arms and legs no longer thrash,

Could be the all we

Might have been –

If belief within ourselves

Had not been deemed

A stricken foe,

Alas, time upon this realm

Ceases every God in each,

Where faith, is destroyed till

We wonder only of

Fantastic tales of glory.

 

     We cried,

We cried so long and hard,

Yet we perish in the sea

Where honesty be overwhelmed,

And all these tears –

Were never the flood,

Never a changing tide

To turn the world to Good;

Just a sickness of humility,

Where even the slimmest chance

Of reaching buoyant aid,

Has been thwarted,

Before we even lived.

 

 

Michael J Waite 31st December 2013.