It's Almost December

It’s on days like this, during times like these

When I’m not so terribly happy to be someone who saw

My time as an agoraphobic broken bridge hidden from lives most certainly lost.

A man of short roads and a weakening grasp

Driven by something, ever pointed, ever longing, toward all that’s been overgrown

And though the path is empty, with emptiness before me, I fear that I’m afraid that I’m alone.

Am I though?

I guess the odds are good.

Because for all the time I’ve spent on this, I’ve never really known

The path to lasting happiness

The source of every bird song and whatever words they sing to say

How am I supposed to tell the truth from all that’s false and fades?

They look so starkly similar

As if you’re trying to tell a house from a purple finch

Where shades of burgundy and washed out blood are Catholic tales of manufactured sin

That will stand as a Rorschach painting

Of ink spilled over all that you might hope to see

Hidden in the fragmented shade of the man you’ve always been told you must be

By flowing robes stood on fracturing pedestals

Who preach with outstretched hands held high

That the greatest thing left for us to do is to just lay down and die.

Beneath the dirt and chapel stone

Where we’ve fallen before a great weight pulling down our ascent with hat held in hand

Held up in a solemn surrender, to the unrelenting allure, of this apparently godless land

That will tear down our tallest cathedrals

Great monuments to the gods of the moment that bow to the elements when given the time

And so then are we not our own fragile creations? Are we not our own end of the line?

Let’s say we are, and that perhaps I should feel better

In the end we are trials and tribulations, and we are the stone buildings that fall

And for all of the time I’ve spent here in fear, how odd it is to be nothing at all.

With no eyes left to see a creator

Nothing to hold and mark my place on the earth

I remember even now the words of my father that the truth will always still hurt

Still in the throes of great passion

Stiller then in the times that will linger and sting as the arrival of our greatest grief

How strange that every moment of this life has been shaped by blind men with no doors for their keys

So in the end I suppose I will wander

There are still some long roads that are still left to see

But what an odd experience this lonely Eden has been-

And what a strange thing it is to be me.