I Have No Thing To Pray To But...

Miserable people spread their misery around:
joyful people tend to lend their joy.
Fascinating that so many darknesses abound –
and brightness is discarded like a toy.

Though wary of polarities, I rather like the light –
at least as it contrives to help create:
it’s good to feel its afterglow warm, deep into the night
when promises and hopefulness abate –

I have no thing to pray to but Existence, here, undressed –
at best, it floods my being with its dare –
to keep its vigil seems to mean a kind of happiness –
to live, instead of merely think, that prayer.

But I am capable of virulence – sadism – doubt:
can send them burning, blazing through a heart –
contagion is inevitable when I let these out –
delight in suffering wields its dark art.

I’d like to think or dream one last decision might be made
removing the necessity to act –
but misery and joy and their emotional brigade
need me – again, again – to make them fact.


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