Sentiments reawaken in bittersweet gloom,
As within the Before Time the present does yearn.
Nestled well in uncertainty, feelings betray
What the Now Time consummates through sanctioned dismay.
What profound global justice begets our concern?
Has the past made the nowness predictive of doom?
While engaging in manipulative techniques,
The collective unconscious collects, as designed,
What it senses as detrimental psychic waste.
If we cannot dispose of it, then we are faced
With a moral dilemma. What faith can I find
That I had once, but lost in a matter of weeks?
People speak truth on Sundays. Is this fact or lie,
Or an intricate mixture derived to deceive
The world’s sheep-seated flock safely off the Lord’s cliff?
Faith precludes insecurity but only if
I do not play the victim nor someone naïve
To the hell yet forthcoming. Need I ponder why?