It is dark.
Why is it always dark.
Granted 3 in the morning has its desperation.
Its stillness of mind, yet it also offers something,
Something that most times of day do not…
The voice of God.

Now this could be seen by many fool as the beginning
Of a foolish religious script
But I can promise you that no such travesty
On poetic justice will occur on my watch.

What has been said over time,
Is the All mighty something of myth?
Something of fact?
Does he watch me at night,
Keeping me safe?
Or is he the poor beggar I pass
The one I leave all my money with,
The Beggar
With the Bum Knee.

It is with earnest that I cannot say
On this dark Monday morning.
I feel alone in this place
Walking through downtown of this Southern city
Angry buildings
Dilapidated people

Perhaps it is here that God sits on his throun
Atop the old City Federal building
High up
In a black vacant sky

I walk past him
Playing my wooden God
Singing the pain of a generation almost gone
But never lost

Maybe it is safe to say
That someone hears my pain
I doubt it is God

But I stop walking
Feeling the last taste of a strong metal string
Hurting myself with every cord
I put my God beside me
And pray
To the beggar
With the righteous bum knee.