Thirty-three

I'm thirty-three and three today.
Don't sleep at nights, but feel okay.
The ground beneath feels loose, not slick.
Overreached Christ and Father, quick.

Age’s no reward; it’s all in might.
I never acted with no invite.
But when they asked, I’d drag this out
Was called a georgian and felt so proud.

But path bypasses these sacred gates.
To carry on feels out of place.
To outlast Dad’s and prophet’s gleam,
Being staunch to life’s blind stream.

What to do? No answers choke.
Did my dad fall asleep or woke?
With Hattifatteners, unreturning,
Had left the game as Christ was doing..

Who spoke to people that they are bros,
Whom people were eager to hang on the cross.
Bros still repeat his oaths to this day,
As hollow as powers to which we obey.

I’m just a chill guy, at home, at work,
No reflection, just work in Word.
Like coffee, soluble in the crowd,
A system cog — and yet, not loud.

At father’s age, yet a common guy.
Planning trips with my girl to Thai.
Playing Dumby  while being high,
For kicks alone, before cams eye.

Just type of normies, no shining goal,
Just planned scrappies, like clockwork rolls.
A wife, a car, a flat, some deals,
I just started to climb my peaks.