hidden poem

What is the next stage
delivered like an April fire
like sad notes on warped vinyl
violins and seasoned cellos stinging
fountain pens pleasantly scratching
attempting to discover the face of the future
where triumph meets mere contentedness
One does not ask much of God
this is a lesson learned through vain reframing
one’s own soul is not the question
it is the doorbell wedding
that is what is at ease, too quickly
on the heart of participated jargon
The will remains hidden
a non-combatant, forgetful
too forfeited to repel the future
the star bent ruins of distraction
and the ruminations of this hollow space