I have pissed in the soup
of orthodoxy and dogma
watched human life trickle away
as liquid from a broken vessel,
incomplete and unfulfilled.
At night I sleep in whispering sand
its shifts and sighs remind me of love,
each dawn I go to seek my maker
left hand empty, knife hand full.
On the last day, they tell me,
the dead will arise, to hear their fate,
to find their place, but I will not attend,
because the day after the final day
when all is wrapped in a silence profound,
I will leave my sleep and start again.