Poor Man's Confession

Lord. My dear Lord. Lord of my work
I work, can’t stop citing the notes of my life
I give, can’t stop working the night shift at day
Drowsiness lackluster effort permeates my be
Forming formality, I drop to one knee
To conclude this saga of rest and of peace
I simply can’t convey, my tongue moves without
The strength in my chest to heave a sound out
I lower my head to see beneath all
And just as I suspect there is nothing below
The base of existence, how I came, I don’t know
Without wings, without resolution, I can’t return after long
Blasted is he, who reflects me to myself
I have tons of money, I have no wealth
A pauper of spirit, I must re-inter
My life, I must lift, so I can resume there
Lord. My dear Lord. I say this poor man’s confession
There can be death during life; I have learned my good lesson