The Weary Now

April 19, 2018

Tell me what we do with life? And what for?

We fight to hold on to a fabled youth,
The love of husband, or of a wife...
or those small chocolates at the end of the booth we care for but amount to nada.
No doubt we send our babies off to war, grouchy towards the wet of morning dew.

In older times they say things were better.
Boys went to work and girls twirled, men to church and women sang their sweet songs of nada to the weary world.

Now we drown ourselves in the meaningless papers and screens we’re handed or else... reprimanded.
Chip and saw away the ice sculptors, to match the picture given to us
by some vice-higher power or other, whose orders are law but amount to nada.

Now morals are but pennies and our hearts weep with the rest of us, our woes:

“Hail nada, hallowed be thy nada, give us this nada our daily nada” the story goes

But for some of us, there is more. We look up to the sky and still find something to look up to. One who listens... yet he hears... And all the anxiety and depression and sex and heartbreak and lies and murder and alcohol and empty shelves and awful things that people say... the hopelessness we find today... we bring upon ourselves.

One who gives us that more... that thing we seek and can never find... that nada... Some would pay anything for that which he gives freely... yet they won’t look, as it takes more than looking to really see.

Now there is only tomorrow or yesterday or the very intentional now.
We seek something else, peeking out from the dark sky at 2:34 AM and taunting us saying it’s there but not how. A peace... some fulfillment in the weary now.

“Hail nada, glory be to nada” Old Hemingway mumbles

And James’ fingers are yellowed and cool against the glass bottle, and Martha’s calmly stroke the head of her baby child, mindful of the tubes giving it borrowed, artificial life, and both look up at that same dark sky at 2:34 AM for that nada. They are looking like the rest of us, not sure for what. Who can blame us?

A prisoner is never a prisoner because he chooses to be so. Otherwise, they call him guest. And then they stop, their eyes to rest. Losing, we stop and focus our eyes back on the highway where they say they are supposed to be.

For in the end we are only specks on a canvas and the moon moves the sea.






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