At the height of my doubts, I never questioned the historicity of the Christ. Perhaps I knew that it mattered not, when the message it revealed was one of absolute love. So it is that I dress myself with a religion that covers me in part. What is exposed, is not beautiful to look at, but leaves little room for denial. Will I be rewarded for this with the truth? And whose truth, when it varies from person to person, from deity to deity.
There is a slight uneasiness tying my insides in knots. It is the human in me, of which little remains. The effort to feel less has paid off, with time and dedication. It is too soon to say that this process is to my benefit, or if it is no more than a matter of suppression and convincing self-deception.
Poems about aging will be largely ignored. No one wants to grow old, despite the potential for wisdom. We are all tied to our vanity, even when beauty was absent throughout youth. Things that were never within our grasp are fully idealized. It is all missed opportunity, we say. The lies we tell to cause or feel pain, are frequently high in number. We all want substance, even when it is defined solely by sorrow.
This has been a life of sharing cigarettes with temperamental lovers. Anything I have to say about a man who has given me a difficult time, will always disclose much more about me.
In between everything I have ever done, there are pieces of me sticking through. My time has been framed, hanging pretty on someone’s wall.