Talking With God Late At Night

God,

you are never going to show me the sign,

are you?

My silent God.

I always must guess

what you’re thinking.

Apparently, certainty is for others,

for me, I just make mistakes.

I lay in my bed and stare at the ceiling,

until, giving up, I get up

and grab my pen,

as though my pitiful musings

amount to a hill of beans.

Strange, isn’t it,

how poets think they know things

that others can’t see?

It’s all a bit silly

this pretend game we play.

God,

won’t you let me rest?

ease my doubts,

let me slip away

to a deep dreamless sleep.

To a new day,

a new man,

certain of my fate!

At last the sky starts to lighten,

I can hear the birds

begin to sing.

So, I’ll make another cup of tea

and begin again.

And maybe today is the day

my reluctant God

will begin to speak.