Weary

Can sorrow ever resolve to joy
or pleasure evolve to pain
as ice in summer reverts to streams
and sunshine converts to rain;

or as boys age quickly into men
and men grow old and die.
What sort of ratio applies to life
in a future past-perfect tense?

Who decides the fate of plural wives:
who stays, who it is must go
to create a still cherished envisioned dreams
abandoned in prior lives?

Will greed, disgust and passion flee,
former happiness to again be heeded
with none of the anger and pain of sex:
no hurt, no forgiveness needed?

No more of that love humans seem to want
that so often to boredom fades;
or a love that hurts, but may reconcile
after failures and escapades.

Is that in the end what humans want?
God weary and humans worn out,
men bored to death with insipid cant,
women left alone with their struggles.

Or is this the heaven we wonder about?
A magic forever with never a doubt,
not a thought about what might have been
or the need temptation for sin?

For all we know, there may be constant rejoicing,
unending hallelujahs and praise
and nothing to alter the temperature
for days upon days upon days,

since each day of itself lasts forever:
unchanging, unending, eternal…
and no a place for anyone to flee
unless an as yet unknown ethereal planet.

All purportedly known so far
is there’s no death,
the quality of life still unknown
absent published accounts of witness.