Our past
Is the devil who knows
What happiness
Kills us with hindsight

But demands we believe
Each tomorrow
Finds its memory pursued
Like a wish,

Which misses that call
Staring back
When dreaming alone
Cannot fathom
How heaven remains
Less elusive
Than days long sought
As they were

Under details
Buried from pain

Letting faith enfold
Such experience

Far beneath these woes
Hardly stories
For another sad sack
Keeping hope –

Being here and now
Yet again,

Proving fate itself
Merely selfish,

Watching God employ
Science fiction
Seeing good things end
All at once.

Even plot threads
Better off wrong
Are appropriate there
Despite ruining
Life’s best extents
Hitting limits
Counting backwards
Sifting through age –

Another lost year
Discontent,

Looking sideways
Spending their purpose
On delivering still
Future letters
Sent home towards hands
Truly loved.

• J. Pigno