So this is it.
365.
A year of bottled confessions.
A year of regrets.
A year of reaching out.
A year of burned hands.
And what at the end
of the rainbow awaits?
A love letter
from a man condemned.
An askew glare
from the rugged initiator
of all this mess.
Words of tentative praise
from a faceless goddess.
(Bless you)
A bearded Jesus
remastered and reborn
on the blooming
deserts of Arizona.
Oh, lord, what more, what more
can a man expect?
Trouble is
I'm not a man.
I'm so much more,
or perhaps even less.