The Setting Son

by on November 4, 2012 :: 0 comments

A spoilt soul,
A burning hole of darkness,
Smouldering fire of yesterday’s innocence.
The portrait is black.
Take it down, paint a new one.
Blackened again.

The secret’s out,
A mother mourns for her loss,
A blue eyed boy, gone.
Sheds tears, the years have changed him.
Remembering a child she loved,
Seeing a man she doesn’t.

How the high star falls,
How the day fades,
Until after just two decades, night reigns.
The Dawn seems distant.
Potential pissed to a cold wind,
The only son, prodigal.

Too many raised voices,
Too many sins, consumptive nihilism.
An implausible saviour, fiercely desired,
Suspend your disbelief and make Pascal’s wager,
Though it defies all logic.
Why would a good God give me life?

There is no end, yet.
The final verse unwritten,
Suicide or salvation,
Damnation or deliverance.
The moment is crucial.
All bets are on.

editors note:

Stakes are high at the cosmic casino. No tellin’ whether Pascal went bust or ran the house. We’re all in; rollin’ for 7, bettin’ on 00, pullin’ the handle; but, really, there’s no tellin’… – mh

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