Counting Sheep

The silence hangs in the air like heavy drapes
the kind that make day night; if I were a bat
sleeping all day unnoticed to come out
at night and fly by sonar, why is
everything so unnatural here
our intuitions should lead
us home but they are
insulated from us
by a million
obligations
and duties
and all the things
that make us old before
we have lived a life of our
own other than the one we
bought and were told to live
by others long ago who lined
our road to hell with their good
intentions or not so good really, willy
nilly we came into this world gratifying
someone’s lust for the most part or were
you born of love or half and half Lord only
knows and I suppose that just to be here is
to don the veil of mystery we call life which is
hardly ever familiar if truth be known and when
it is, it’s usually ripped from under your feet before
the rains come to save your corn crop for someone else

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