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"Sometimes I Tire Along The Path" (by Joe DiMino)

Sometimes I tire along the path—
Colors not bright 
As they once were;
Shapes in my hands
Turning to water,
Dribbling to indifferent earth— 
Her reply to everything
The same stale belch—

The temptation
Is to believe 
That I have been lied to—
By some great Oz
Behind a celestial curtain, 
The cloak all traditional
Illusionists wear—
Pulling levers,
Howling through a megaphone—
In control,
Freewill a plural-delusion—

I pray
For even a little star to follow,
For a Bethlehem
And a manger—
Search amidst straw
For lost gleam of light:
“…we see through a glass darkly”
A voice surfaces,
That of the Dynamic Paul,
Parting the veil,
Grasping hold of my trembling hand
Firmly lifting me—