Somehow

Sometimes the scriptures of reality are spraypainted on the walls of stalls.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Somehow we crawled through the shit's thickness again,
Made the money we had to make for the ten thousandth time.
Sprayed in the face by the spit of stars tonight we spat back.
The moon, not privy to the joke, seemed to crumble and crack.
Is there no escape from the tedium of civilization's obligations?
Some little realization as the birds of midnight moan not sing?
There is no Moses now to lead an exodus from this shithouse
And the self can only light a candle in its own cobwebbed head.
We hope that time will make it alright but tonight we fear this:
Our lives are minor memories that die with our acquaintances,
We shall not be transformed from excrement to angels of light,
We shall not be seen in clouds, underfoot or in another's smile,
And we shall never rest as God did to never give a shit again.