Should I play these cards?
Are these things I really want?
Or are these merely dreams, lost in the lust of rage?
Or a song, waiting to be sung,
Aloud, among eager young listeners?
Hard, it is, to understand blind rage,
Though naturally it flows from a mature mind.
Yet it cannot help but be fueled by love
Of some kind
Because the emotions are, in fact, the same.
But what is it we actually sew?
I mean, do any of us actually take account
To what it is we put out there
Into whatever ether we suppose there is,
Or is not…
Are the souls we are given,
As if on a buffet of humanity before our eyes,
To be taken into our heart of hearts,
Or merely sloughed off
Like so much dead skin?
And how exactly do we know?
Show I play these cards?
For this life is not a matter of wild cards,
Because we are dealt pure stud poker,
Yet we think there is some skill in gambling,
Though there is nothing but chance,
Which is a word invented to disguise
The very will of God…
And we have the gall to think that somehow
This is all left to some random convergence of events,
Knowing in our very DNA
That He is the Dealer,
And our account is blindly emptying
Not before our eyes,
But in our sweaty fear
Whether to play these cards.
Copyright 2013 by Andrew T. Durham