Just so you know

Faltering and flailing, through screams and harsh whispers, it all remains in a constant flux of poorness of spirit, of hope, of light that anything should end and leave a better beginning.
I write occassionally now (being daily), but the words, as the days, are insufficient and yield fewer results than a field baked in drought, left thirsty for water that doesn't exist. It doesn't exist as it once was thought, or was hoped to be. I'm tired and if I had the strength... if I had the strength.

How many times, how many ways
can the days, be counted and numbered-
ravaged, torn-through, plundered and razed
to the ground and be left buried deep
within its own walls, below its own ash:
the haze of a memory that slowly fades?

Why can the light be measured, not saved,
like the remnants of a well-prepared meal
wrapped neatly in celaphane, tucked away
for good use tomorow, or the day after?
....

The mountain was mine from dry brush to green pine
to the snow capped peak blurred by the breeze
and seldom reached, rarely touched, but by the careful hand
stretched out from a calm blue sky, and water
like a floating river or poind. Always seen a challenge,
a goal, for one to aspire to climb, to conquer,
never to hold or carry, for certainly a mountain is too heavy,
too wide, too big for a pocket, or wallet, or purse-
unless, of course, a silky sleek snapshot in perfect light, a perfect memory
lacking the wholeness of even a moment
and certainly the fullness of a day, ayear,
or the ages required to form the shear-faced cliff
of dangling men and loose rocks- the face of a thousand years
formed of ages and wearing and purpose; for a moment in each moment
of motion, of growing, of sowing, saving, spending, shining glory,
shining in day or night, under the milky stars.

oh what cruel futility lies
in the utility of this world
that started,
that ends,
that bends with each season
for the single reason:
to start
to end
to render a page, a book,
the words of the world you speak
easy and without care: like the leaf
in the air that begins the end:
the turning of leaves to a burning fire of smoldering
envy; into dry brown ashes covering the ground that crunch
beneath each step of useless wandering you take,
as the cigarette smolders teh world burns,
and turns,
and yearns for the meaning of destiny,
of fate,
of a life lacking the hate
clutched in your cruel, dull, beating heart
and you ponder upon the light
of water-the cool cleansing rinse;
or shower
to rid you of the grime of the day.

All these miles.

I am quite certain that nobody reads the words I put forth here. But hesitation remains. So I will try to write fluidly. May the possibility of your eyes not be a hindrance to the opening of my heart, or the purity of my words.

I have travelled all these miles to pose you a question. I shall first comment on my current condition: ever declining and empty of motivation and full of ideas- stagnant, stinging ideas singing melancholy and steel. I have not written in a while as complacency has befriended me yet again. Not that I am happy with the current state of affairs- either worldly or personal; but, then, don't all personal issues have a worldly weight? My life is not what I would want for anyone. They would tell me the Lord would not give you more than you take.. well, I suppose limits are meant to be tested. And even with my life not being what I would want it to be, I must consider the notion: Perhaps I wrote my life before the world began, and chose this path purposefully. To me, that would make sense. I am increasingly falling out of love with this world... I continue to loathe my dependance on the world, and become ever more aware of exactly how deep this dependance runs. So, when we finally reach the question I travelled all these miles to ask, forgive me if I seem... well, to favor one side. I do not like the way I look, but constantly look with admiration at my reflection. Ugh, even the music I once to consolation in only seems to pertube me. It has come down to a few songs that touch a fervent chord inside of me.. I close my eyes, sitting outside in the heavy night air of Indiana, the sky is clear and the stars are faint through the haze, and as I listen, I feel my heart shake my body with every forceful beat and pause. Then I feel the delay, my heart beats in jazz rhythms. My chest swells, and as I relax to breathe a face peaks through the curtain, "come with me," she says. Anyways, the question. That idea I wish you to consider. The one all my years have led me to bring to your doorstep. That is why I am here, or perhaps I am here to answer it. Dilemmas abound like mosquitos in a rain-heavy season: buzzing and biting, nagging and annoying.
Why do we work for money when the Lord is certainly capable of providing, willing to provide for your needs?
This is yours to consider. Know that you are not alone if this causes you worry or concern, I am mired in its web. entangled never to return. The spider awaits, savors its prey, but alas, I clipped my wings by my words, and can fly no more.