Start sleeping in a minaret
as close to God as you can get,
and sing along to Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”
Above the sprawl with burning moths
you’ll write by night and candlelight
and scribblings from your broken little pencil.
You’ll try your best to get it right
but still won’t think you have it down
quite yet to any systematic method.
Don’t write to them, for as you know,
you do already miss them so
and any further discourse may well kill you.
Besides, they’ll never hear your thoughts
or read the words you’d wish they’d heard
back when you cared to make up pointless stories.
So sit up there and pen your tripe
with its weak metaphor and underripe
and undeveloped rhyme and fractured meter.
You may lose touch, but don’t turn back
‘cause you won’t make it if you slack
and you can’t publish that which isn’t written.
So relax before you choke those words
to death and take a calming breath
for in good time will come your seraph singing:
“It’s alright now, in our heaven
you are famous, world renowned.
Dry your eyes now, in our heaven
there is no more need to drown
in that frustration that you’ve carried
boiling just under your skin.
Close your eyes now, in our heaven.
Time for you is at its end.”
And off above the minaret
closer to God than they can get
you’ll still compose these baffled Hallelujahs.