I am again worn out, ground down tired. A jigsawed puzzle missing pieces. Neverlast. First time, last time blind. Struck from behind by unseen hands. A humble opening of deliberation and doctrinal concern.
I am once more hardly born, escaping, yet expecting to be remembered. Drifting first to myth then vulgarity. Off by a mile or more of deathbed prophecy. But put the story in context. Tell them who I am. Tell them I belong here.
Here I am – confessing into the dark - the story of me. Though not remotely viable. Complicated and asking for help. More than ornamental. Less than helpful. Striking at confrontation. Reveling in the little and revealing little more. You can’t ask for more than that. I just don’t have it.
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