Dumpster Prayers
We stand on the subtle edge of a knife
. . . but haven't we always?
One mistake from achievement
One success from fiction's endings
And we number the days
As notches in our belt, serving little
Growing bitter, meaning nothing more
Than a piece to bear the weight of time
As it passes like a mime
Silently, with frantic motions of fury.
Oh surreptitious knife
Cleaving spirit and leaving the strife
Of our years of theatric pretending . . .
Am I a soul shipwrecked in skin,
Or a fully autonomous being of dearth
Of purpose, meandering worth,
A journeyman of starlight
Longing for the sun?
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