Almost Always, Always Almost

She said: What is more real?
What you live or what you feel?
Angel busters that
wake you in your crib,
waking you from shadow worlds and
fairytales you used to be so
compliant to the haste
compliant to the moment, sifting away
nothingness from The White Wine.

I hesitate. I deviate.
I push myself to find My Place
in the church, in the
confines of a home,
or confines of a blanched home,
so thoughts won't confuse me,
so Opinion won't abuse me,
and so that peace will drink
my insides instead.

Do you transcend? And venture
thriftily? Crafty spirit, selective host.
But you're still happy.

You stun me, your love for Him it
Strays from the Secular--
Strays from the trash we
dare not confess that we defecate
from our own mistakes.

What happened to this place?
When were choices made so aimlessly?
A nation, mangled in-between
truth and hopeful superstition?

The road belches of sorrow;
a fork in-between.
Reality, transcendental mentality.
Who am I? And who should I be?
Damn conscience,
trekking for answers
that are not inside of me.

Almost, finding relief.
Always, finding grief.

Almost, always guessing.
Always, almost hoping.
Almost, always searching.
Always, almost knowing.