I am a busy man. I work two shifts every day and help out at church and in my area on weekends. At my age, it is hard to confess little desire for what many consider the bounties of life. It is too hectic surviving to dwell on frivolities, as my mind tends to see within a façade in perpetuity.
To be sure, I love humanity. Even if the tortuous wave of history sometimes slaps my face with horror, and pain rips my heart open to fester in self-pity, it dissipates even sooner than it appears, on my accord, into transitory exile ensconced in my psyche.
As a kid, everything was within my reach, in my dreams. It was easier to shut out actuality when it dawned, even then, the only option of a hapless lad. Yet, life had to go on. In fact, my miseries were challenges that a child soul warrior in sophistry must overcome.
The mashing of a puerile soul remains fresh in a distant past. They say to forgive and forget. One cannot it seems forget, but should forgive anyway, and move on, a tune that helped at least until now, for me to invoke again, from you this time.
Akin to other kids, play was succour, even if sometimes our weak spots manifest even in the innocent, that a juvenile soul hurts maybe perhaps some would contest. As for me virtue seeks itself now that my pain loses its fetters. So, to forgive it seems nature bestows on all lacking malicious intent.
That agony forever seems to precede me that lingering stress in the mix ensures, determines how far the mist clears for my vision to hail a crooked world etched in me before things go wrong baffles me. Yet, the struggle never stops, even as sleep eludes for other than a few hours at a time, overwork you say, the cough perhaps the apnoea, may be even as my sleep brew starts to wear off, and my soul bounces to life.
Why solitude should relief even as some try to lift a pathetic heart-rending slumber that belies the toil it prescribes perhaps for mystic ends that flusters even the bosom that caresses it back to life now and again informs. The need in sleep to shun that in which the flesh indulges instructs again to plea compassion for a lost soul to save.
To strive to love to make it work tells of one with noble goals, not one to hurt one that sleeps even as my lack may tempt not what the lack for long I bear but that lives in me as my lack sets down. So, it pains me to defile an innocent even asleep as my tainted soul reels in agony of a past its own. Yet, innocence my body pleads to crave not revenge for my lack.
Let justice sway to declare me guilty but innocent, so my soul torments over and over the guiltless as my lack instructs some would say. Yet, my purity others would vie says much that my flaws do not reveal to one laden with guilt for what he knows not to stop, for which help though seems not near enough.
So, fairness helps somewhat but may be not my folks, some that simply walk in dark crypts to cook, eat, laugh, and cry, to alarm nearer still for some, always for all to know, torture, wonder, anger, or even worse what prevails when we emerge into another state, the void of day.
Time passes me by even as my dream nears realness and my body adjoins an enigma it seems pervades my entirety. Then to fulfill says what trip results to wander in time for lust perhaps not. It is a goal whose time has come I say and wonders what to occur such time travel achieves when my lack inexplicably overrides.
Still I lack, hoping your trust to which my cringe for sure relies is real, lest to another dungeon shoved my soul, and as before innocent even to know why my lack assures such fate, when my soul indeed, lacks. To see my pain imposed on yours for one the victim it seems may indeed confound. But to know no lack of mine contests that now in fact tells where my lack is for all to know.
It is also not for me to doubt your want for me to cease to blame a lack to hurt in sleep denied for lack. Perhaps, even more, never for you to have to agonize again over my lack. So, help me to know what my soul desires in sleep that it should awake, to seek then not in the dark what gift life to all bequeaths abounds in light.
To wait in my sleep as indeed for real is the virtue that I seek but lack is why you hear me cry to all for help so not to make you feel my lack in agony but to celebrate it in love unbound. So my work, my stress, and not to sleep even with my booze no longer count to lack eternal what you give in life, not lost in the dark. Then even at night to dance away and catch the lingering eye that blinks slowly invites with a smile fills my soul to lack no more as my wait in time the love train moves for all to see.
And that it all sounds contrived to me is not a joke, for to revere your hope in me is sublime in all that a vanished soul regards. As it travels alone to fit it seeks but finds in lack so hard its own. The flesh then is immortal in lack that hurts its soul and all. It relishes lack when in fact within it languishes and cries.
So, to be free his soul craves your help to let him be again, who he really is that sleeps to hurt an innocent to seem in vengeance when in fact it seems what he lacks is that to hurt who he works so hard to love in eternal bliss in his dreams, as indeed, he says in life, .
