The sky cracked, opened up, and filled with rain while you cried,
“My life has been one, long, tortured road with no end.”
“With each fight, my heart, my love, he rends.”
Piece of my heart,
Janis Joplin, on an old jukebox, wailing as if she’s in the know
of all the pain that’s grown within your soul.
I watch helpless, as your broken heart tears me apart.
How long must we fall before the angels come to call?
I sit, stirring the ethereal clouds of creamer
into my brown sky coffee.
I eye all your agony written in dashes of a scissors gashes.
Your hair, cut with jagged slashes.
Must we stay on Earth while so much pain infests our hearts that hurt?
There’s only one way back to Heaven, not dying in the back of the Seven Eleven,
with a needle in your arm.
No, no, this is not the way!
Each time you try to take away your mind,
you further yourself from Him,
though, I completely understand.
And I was she as she is me.
Our heavy loads wind past the same flimflam, and
roads filled with the harrumph of Horny Toads.
Trudge on! To make It through another day!
Let us sense You, God, in our senseless world!
Our paths wear on,
with bricks of burden that break our backs
as we traverse our universe while being eternally cursed.
With barren souls, and empty lockets, we seek a picture portrait of You,
our lives have been filled with meaningless goals and given roles,
though we still strive to cleave with You!
Fill us with Your love!
The Pirket Avot has forty-eight ways to find where He lays, while we listen to,
There are Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover, Simon and Garfunkel the old jukebox.
We all fight our evil inclinations, though they might be in need.
We flinch, like the giant water buffalo,
under Your yoke, bound by Your love.
The hours are long and dim as we struggle upon an Earth that never lets go,
and the meaning of why we’re here has never been made quite clear.
We were born to be in between the light and the night with our Yetzer Hara
and Yetzer Tov, influencing a maze of endless things,
while we try to fly home to Him with clipped wings.
We struggle to be with God through all the nights that bleed us dry.
And I hold her hands in mine, she is me and I am her, and I know her pain.
Next week, at noon, tea for two, one more time?
And if she loses the fight, let an angels descend
to bring her home to heaven once again.
Sweet thing, though the road is hard and long,
the fallen who remember Him shall carry on!
Holy, Holy, Holy! The angels sing.
The presence of God is without, within!