I don't sleep much
anymore --
unremittingly, it's naps
and snacks,
pen in hand, inscribing
words at 5 AM.I have prayed for relief --
there is no answer conversing
with God:if thought
exceeded the velocity of light,
would he hear
a single muted plea?It seems life
is a continually moving flash,
an inside-outside ache,
which leaves no thought
on how to spend
the days --It's Easter holidays,
and the only man
with the solution, died
carrying his own
cross.I surmise
I'll have to continue
carrying my own,
so it seems.Somewhere
between toast and coffee,
the aftertaste lingers, like prayers,
waiting for god.