The Face of my Godless Youth

There is a lighthouse lost in fog on an island without name

I go there in my mind from time to time

to find the dreamer of my youth

with his incantations

and spells without regard to what imperacists

would have us think and want to believe; there was more truth

in a falling leaf caught in a breeze or the flight of crows

in those creation myths of my salmon fishing friends’ vast cold north

where ocean lies larger than life and all human struggling and strife could

be put in a little box and floated out to sea once set aflame

like a funeral pyre…I want to write love notes to God in bottles and toss them

overboard so that another part of me may find my existential nausea amusing in their

quest to be  endlessly  entertained  behind palace walls where they all tell one another

you’re OK I’m  OK til cows fly

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