Flung down, run down,
bunged up and hung over,
I got on the bus today
to leave once more
a place full of people I love,
intense friendships which burnt
at fever pitch for a little while
but now will fade
until we meet again to
stoke the embers and ignite
another blazing bonfire
of words, booze and blues,
everyone dancing like idiots
until the grey morning returns.

Sitting on the bus with a
pounding head and bleary eyes,
I know all too well that
to live is to suffer;
bound and gagged by time
we are assaulted by a
constant sense of loss,
of having left behind
something meaningful.
Moments we want to hold
slowly slip into silence as
the ravages of the clock
tick-tock our temporary time
until too soon we must go,
always searching for what
we have already found and lost,
lost and found,
among the doubtful sounds
of an uncertain universe.

But then I came to a church;
a tiny building beside a lake
so blue it shamed the sky,
so beautiful that the church
didn’t need stained-glass windows,
for nothing could tell the
story of God’s grandeur
better than that water,
so I sat and listened
to the moving old tale,
breathing in the peace,
which smelled of oak and age
and a thousand weary souls
come to find deliverance.

There was a sign which read:
‘This is a place of God,
please treat it as such’
and it was certainly true;
God does live in that church,
but I couldn’t help thinking that
every place is a place of God,
and sometimes I just need a
beautiful view to remind me that
I really have lived and loved
and that is enough,
for it will always be with me
as I sit alone, play with silence
and think about how happy and sad,
joyous, painful and absurd this life is
and how shit it is to say goodbye
and how thankful I am for it all
and what exact food will most
help me with this awful hangover.

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