Beautiful Ends

Undisguised, The Nature of Blessings Blessings aren't cloaked things, They don't peer from under the covers, They sit on the surface, The losses that are gains, The missings that are found, To even mythologize blessings, Is to encounter and counter, Because the blessing isn't your God, It's the universe's, And it exists contrary and outside of resurrection, The blessing is breath, the blessing is oxygen, The blessing is your very existence, existence blesses you, And you bless it, to have the thought, “I exist,” Constructing the idea, the word, Existence. Looking for blessings is futile, Your God is a clamped fist, blessings don't reside in his unseeable palm, In whatever form you are, that is existing, And a blessing, The discomfort that has left your hands clenched, after I disputed godly blessings, are as good as hands pressed in prayer, it is the blessing of feeling, of anger, of neurological centers communicating to Your bones blood and skin, bend, shift, fold, to live all your blessings. You will always feel the touch of your own hand. Astronomical Shoot for the moon, A commonly uttered cliché, Never heard at a gun rally, Because of its irrelevance, No idiot ever tried to shoot the moon, Shoot the many targets that are its cratered surface, The sheer distance would lead the shot astray, Our lands littered with disappointing bullets, I'm neither for nor against arms, But I will say I am for withholding these shooting machines away from astronauts.