I rail at the sky, the sun, stars and moon
but no answer comes from the canopy
of endless empty airless nothing hewn
from vestiges of astrotherapy.
You sent me thingless to this barren ball.
(I am thingless still to this present day)
Of why I’m here I have no clue at all;
and everywhere… the rancour of decay.
It seems to me so vain to leave someone
revolving in a door with no respite –
a turning whirling carousel undone;
a never-changing waterfall of plight.
I’m not afraid to slay a sacred cow:
I’ll wrestle with You; choose your weapon now!
© Alan Morrison, 2013