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
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?