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To Peck Upon The Hands Of God

what i see
every morning
on the same
time of
this
wrecking hour
is what pushes
me
to do
all these
writings on
the wall

i pity myself
but what can i do?

it creates all
the drum sounds in
my heart
and i am dancing wildly
in this forest
without the light
of the sun
yet

it caresses my
skin
like the massage
that one cannot forget
and so keeps
on returning

there is nothing
wrong here
nothing evil
it is
the mouth of heaven
speaking

there is no guilt
anymore
but after all these
wriggling
what hovers
in the fields are
the birds of
boredom
and the air of loneliness
keeps
blowing

i pity myself
this bird that flies high in the sky
without the fear
of falling

far from the mountains
wanting to
peck upon
the hands
of God

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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