What will I do
With my time
Now that
There isn’t
Any?

Perhaps
Just sit complacent
Jotting poems
If they
Come

While believing
Life may end
Dreaming words
Whose lines
Are comfort

Still surprised
How hours linger
On behalf
Of meaning
Lost

To this hurt
Which mustn’t wait
For some cure
No man
Can fathom

Calling strength
True twisted healing
Without prayer
Some think
As weak,

Though its not
The drug they seek
Or that pill
Such doctors
Promise

Missing faith
In long equations
Balanced only
By our
Fears

Wishing death
Undue delays
Judging God
Like ancient
Magic

Despite answers
Often summoned
From intent
Once chasing
Proof –

Yet instead
Remains unseen
Gifting grace
Beyond
Old shadows

Casting doubt
Upon dark faces
Choosing daylight
Be their
Veils

So each moment
Seems sincere
Growing brighter
Since
Those questions

Might persist
Outside existence
Known by artists
As new
Birth

Feeling blessed
This morning bleeds
Thudding heartbeats
And brief
Pauses

Between headaches
Hope has murdered
Knowing heaven
Can be
Said

Where defeat
Is not unique
Like each symptom
Fate may
Worship

Turning phrases
Into conquest
Via stories
We leave
Here.

– J. Pigno