How do we find our way home?
Will friends carry us?
Is the path lit by fireflies and
moonlight?
Will we see through the distances
time throws at us?
Is creation done or is there still
work to do, some small tasks left
to us?
Do we cross eyes and dot tees,
engage in minutiae befitting
our status?
Is there even a meaning in that?
Is there a meaning in anything?
Or
Do we just wait?
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Your poem, Paul, reminds me very much of Samuel Beckett's play Waiting for Godot, where all the character's wait around for a god who never turns up. Maybe waiting, with false hope, isn't such a good idea. What if we make the journey, regardless of its possible futility, with a torch of our own making (made from our poems)? Wouldn't that, at least, pass the time quite pleasurably for us?
Finding our way home isn't some gentle stroll under the stars. It's a battlefield, littered with uncertainties and existential landmines. Friends? Maybe they'll carry us if they aren't too lost themselves. Fireflies and moonlight? Sure, if you believe in fairy tales. But more likely, we'll be stumbling through the pitch-black chaos time loves to hurl at us.
Creation isn't wrapped up with a neat little bow. There's always more work to do, even if it's just picking up the broken pieces and slapping on some duct tape. Cross eyes and dot tees? We might not need to be perfect, but engaging in the minutiae keeps us from spiraling into madness.
Meaning? That's the cosmic joke, isn't it? We scramble around, trying to make sense of this twisted play, and sometimes all we get is a handful of ashes. But that doesn't mean we stop searching. Waiting isn't passive; it's the calm before the storm, the moment before we unleash our full potential on whatever comes next.
In the end, it's about fighting tooth and nail, clawing our way through the darkness, and trusting that somewhere along the line, the path will blaze with the inferno of our will. So, no more waiting. It's time to move, to act, to rage against the dying of the light, and carve our own way home.
I live by this quote. Elizabeth Taylor famously said, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some red lipstick, and pull yourself together."
Paul, your poems of late are mirrors of your heart ache. My heart and my hand in friendship are held out to you. They always will be.