To Die Trying

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.



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