Up above the city, the vein of gold in the darkness,
looking up at those white and distant stars,
hoping to feel humbled and small, so none of these
sorrows will matter anymore.
Maybe a star will fall, like Lucifer from Heaven,
and I can go hunt down that fallen angel, and keep
him from adding to what’s already been done,
stop a bit of the violence that always going on.
Maybe a good angel, a real angel, will come down
and impart a message, whisper God’s Will in my ear,
so I can know where to go, what to do, what words to speak.
Maybe I’ll be chosen. God always chose to use fuck ups in The Bible.
Maybe, the cool wind that is a soothing balm in this blasted
July heat, and the softness of the call of insects, the hooting
of nocturnal birds, and the feeling of being between worlds,
above man, below God, will soothe all those writhing thoughts.