Tossing sticks into
the River Styx.
Some days life is
Hell.
The forceful rising waters
rush tempestuously over me,
pushing me away
from the saving seas
of peaceful tranquility,
leaving me adrift with
my own morbid sensibility,
bereft of spiritually visual acuity,
dry as a bone at high-noon
in the Mojave or Negev.

My God,
Why hast thou
Forsaken me?

I didn’t offer up these words,
for they were from another’s mindset.
But in my darkest hours
I’ve whispered the same.
And only when I am nearly
totally drowned beyond hope,
do I get a reply,
when you tell me

Don’t ask why.

It is just the way
I do things.