Belief was overrated until my affinity for self destruction gave in,
and then I wanted holy water as badly as I wanted a well beyond that Fata Morgana of yours,
You had to go spelunking in a continental drift,
only to tell me that fault lines were not my fault,
and even though I knew that to be true,
I also knew that this was no longer the year of magical thinking,
that there were blue lines underneath a once promising sunset,
that all of this was the subsequent kind of afternoon that you had warned us about,
the one that appears late in life,
and if we could squint just long enough to make out the silhouette,
we could point out that all of this is blurry,
or murky,
if you are thinking about all the whirlpools that belonged out in the middle of the Atlantic,
but instead wound up here,
playing Red Rover with the river bed,
and then the ocean's bed again,
it doesn't matter which ocean,
they were all continental drifting,
this we knew to be the case,
but then on Christmas Eve one year,
you gave me a coal miner's hat with a light on top,
and you told me that no good ever came from giving
into blindness,
and I could tell you that I did not feel sorry for
myself,
and since I did not have that need,
then no one else should have that need,
you told me you expected great things from me,
oh, what I could do with justice being blind and
all,
apparently, I could do little,
I could just sit here and remember,
that I got all my good ideas at night,
and it was always night in here
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