Faith, Hope And Reality
I love my life in many ways.
by Graham Burton
At least I tell myself I do,
when in quiet moments I reflect,
on shallow hedonistic thrills,
hazy eclectic memories of earthly pleasures,
that sell me the belief that it’s all worthwhile.
The gulps, the gasps, the guffaws:
That bottle of claret,
the fun we had with baby oil,
Harpo’s silly handshakes,
yesterday, last week, last year.
But I find the present harsh.
The here, the now. I feel its starkness.
Listen to me, don’t turn your head!
Now is reality.
A time to ask what’s next.
Don’t panic! (that’s my forte not yours) .
Don’t call the shrink just yet!
I’m neither insane nor suicidal,
(too afraid that death is final!)
I’ll limp along, a martyr to my doubt.
Self-pitiful, vulnerable, without that crutch.
Resisting the pull of peace and solemnity,
mosaic windows, choirs, aesthetic beauty.
The security of Heaven and the heaven of security.
Blind faith was never an option you see.
Too easy that, too unfulfilling, for sceptic me.
A silent shepherd I do not want,
I need tangible green pastures.
Perversely, such arrogant ability,
to read between the lines of the book,
fuels a perpetual flux of anxiety.
An uncertain empty void.
(My punishment perhaps?) .
I crave truth to quell the disquiet.
Yet, secure in ignorance,
I shuffle on, succumbing to mere hope,
that it’s all part of some big surprise,
any sight of this coil’s end would spoil.