This morning rain and now a low, light mist—
The sun’s been absent for seven days straight,
So I’m afraid we’ll just have to get pissed,
Sit in this woe-filled house and simply wait
For some bright god to break this depression,
Bringing beams of light, cascades of sweet song
To us poor sinners needing confession
For all the right we meant to do, the wrong
We didn’t but compulsively did well.
But can a god or goddess find us here,
Mired in the muck on the pathway to hell,
Grinning into a mirror neither clear
Nor particularly accurate, yet
All the glimpsing of heaven that we’ll get?
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