lack of direction, directed

this pacemaker of existence,
crying out for resolution even as the plot unfolds--
wishing upon a wishing star,
a falling star,
a fallen star
wishing for hope among the rubble beneath my feet.

looking to the sky, seeing nothing there but sky
is that what i'm supposed to see?
how inexplicable, the unexplainable
is this what we've been waiting our whole lives to see?

why this path, why this road
i know there's some good here somewhere
is it the asphalt that guides us, or that keeps us moving
i feel so lost on earth, so unable to find heaven
so empty, that i can be filled by everything, but nothing does
peace comes at last--- at least, i think that's peace.
but it doesn't make sense. what then?
what now?

this small child i've chosen to represent me
has repaid me well: he's brought me through it all,
only to show me that this, too, is a dead-end street.
at the end of it all, i die. and
until then,
i feel pain.
sacrifice and charisma are all well and good, but
they show me much and show me nothing.
whose line is this anyway? and why do i talk to myself at night?
faults and frailties correspond with perfections of happy,
and never before in my life have i been so utterly at a loss
for where to go next.
who's here, who's here
whose hearing do i listen with, caress with,
try to die with
so, the cycle begins again, huh?
well, i guess, after all i've said and all i've done,
i guess...
i guess you can count me in again.
i'll be waiting for you to dig me out of this one.
hurry it up, will you?