A Prayer for The Working Wounded

Carry us, oh Lord, through
these tired corridors of pre-death
waking, as if it were, to chlorinated baptisms,
our flesh still dripping with fashionable shrouds
as we leave our homes and pets and do
what none of us ever dreamt of doing.

We ride our caffeinated anti-dreams like religions –
fitful fistfuls of somnambulation
into walls as real as the hard fact
of imagination lost.

Sidesaddle;
eyes forward yet our hearts
else wise.

At best:
an off-center uncommitted canter - worse:
Ichabod Crane.

We ride into the setting sun alone -
Nightmares are another thing
all together.