Had the sun set there and then
everything would have been all right,
course fragments of blue sky
where still exists unclouded insight.
I duck and I hide and refrain for no reason,
I am the fool in behind each imagined restraint.
I feel for the troubadour carefully hiding his anger
at fools who consider him a saint.
Jesus, your name has been squandered,
your reputation as a straight shooter is in debate.
Your address comes up on too many invitations,
sentiment arriving, as usual, much too late.
Strapped in to what the free world calls happy living,
constrained by what your heart too easily believes,
you stagger and solo and feel erroneously grateful
for pressure bitter crying only temporarily relieves.
Why are you sighing with pathetic resolve?
What are you refusing to admit right out loud?
That all your best moments have turned into rust?
That your small circle of friends is one pitiful crowd?
Heaven is an invention of human indifference,
an unwillingness to face jesus at his worst.
A race, an adventure, a chance experience?
No, Hell got here first.