To Scream at the Moon
January 19, 2010
When I first held you,
a warm and glowing bundle you were.
Newly taken from your mother.
Red.
Slimy.
You said not a word.
I knew then how God must have felt,
and the beast and the tree
and the mountain and the water
and all the angels, and Satan too,
all of them, all those many years ago,
standing silent in the sweaty still cave,
waiting for a Son to scream at the moon.
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I find my self wondering. From time to time, i wander and think to myself, where have you gone? Not in that odd sort of way. When one would take a step back, stop and give a side glance.
No.
More as in, have you written today? Have you build your boat? Are you still lonely, when with your family? Has your clock stop ticking?
God forbid that last one.
I wander, and think, what profound thing will he trip upon today?
Has he seen his cafe, the one with large windows and proud polish couples? Has he met knew and interesting people? Conversations of better days with less predators?
i wonder.