It Just May Be Called Life: Poetry

I said my prayers
by the lamp of disease
Cast up my lots to
a heaven I didn't
know was there

I asked the question
in the back of a
left-over imagination,
scratched the pages
of my life until
they were somewhat
workable

And with the confetti
that I'd made
I forged a collage of
aspirations and
disillusion,
expression and
desperate pride

This artwork I
cleaved to my breast
as if it needed
nourishment,
held on even when
the hourglass had
long since disappeared

The sand had drifted
towards the oasis of
my sanity,
obscuring every truth
in drifts of
golden unmade glass

All that's left
is the art,
All I've got is that fusion,
the locomotion of
creation that keeps
me glued right to my seat

There's all that's left
is this unrealized edifice,
a synchronization,
an episode where realities
all boil down to one

And then we're standing here,
with a lamp and the heavens
Now we're crying here,
with the disease and a chance

that if something were
to come from this,
it may just be called a life...

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