Unthankfulness

I said: Why did you pluck me out?

Why did you end my eden, my atlantis – as amethyst wrapped in cotton wool?

He said: Did you not want to live?

Were you not in a mesmerised eclipse?

Were you not happy when you saw the exit (when the sage visited the bull, seeing it bespattered) and then took it?

I said: I guess so.  But, I didn’t expect it to be so much of hours – intermittent, interminable.

So many moments of shoring up some narrative to myself - frail weaving in the dark.

Joyousness perhaps – but also, all so joyless.

So much tense waiting, the hours trickling through sleep – the seeking to live/love with knowing the unknowing.

He said: I didn’t promise you a garden. I sought to give you life. I felt a yearning. I wrapped it in tissue and gave it to you.

Death sighed and gathered himself and left, irritated perhaps at unthankfulness; though, like a father, he didn’t so show it. In me was a slim sliver of conscience.

I said: Oh well, we will meet again – that, like taxes, is a certainty