And what are we?

 

Are we numbly loose-lipped and post-prandial

on full-bellied summer Sundays,

raising one more delicious inconsequence

before a snores-pause?

 

Are we strokers and pokers

skilled in orificial correspondence

set to midnight music?

 

Are we combat-ready for the blood-letting

of nights at the round table,

at ease with full-fired intellect and born again bullshit

delivered in the self-same breath?

 

Are we wanderers in temples of tree and stone

in the familiar and foreign,

building ourselves from the known and unknown

with equal reverence

in the blinding dark?

 

Or are we dead-safe?

Sated, superannuated, deflated

in a wait-for-age handicap

over the mortgage distance,

constantly withdrawing options from the hole in the wall

of Life?

 

We, the refugees,

are in danger of retreat from the siege on the City of Doubt,

of being drunk on the poison of ambition,

of cloning our self-encumbered view,

of belief in ever-libidinous loins,

of living a well-rehearsed death.

 

Now, as we stand on the edge

of the Chasm of Indecision,

do we build safety bridges across the leaping flames

or do we take leaps of faith,

fearing Death will cheat delay?

 

Or do we set up camp

and wait for the Lotto results?

 

And for which will we love ourselves the most?