169* by Tim Gunn

Strapped to the syndicate of light,
the vanished emerge
from deep below, amid the roaring tempest –
where we wander, all is ruin.

Our limbs strain to bear feigned beliefs,
psalms chanted in vain.
Pennies lobbed down Stygian wells,
the market price of hope.

Numb is the night, rash the unfulfilled desires
of a mind barreling unescorted toward the brink –
along those detours unremembered
no footprints remain.

The irksome covenants forsaken,
cast aside for mysterious sacraments,
doomed to wonder what lay beyond
the sway of sterile ritual?

The divine ledgers melt away all fortunes,
even our doubts went on credit cards.
No use complaining about it.
We were warned.