All aslant, askew, and I

The evening sun aslant on this small town
And I, looking down
At its last rays beg the question:
(always asked, never answered)
Why am I the one to hold
Onto the dream of all that might be told?

This business of living does my head in.  
A straining thing, sieving
The good from the bad, the false
From the true, hearing and feeling the pulse
But never quite catching the beat -
Riding this life like a wave, seat
To the skies, back-braced and ready:
All requires such a steady
Nerve to hold one's worth intact,
All those gold coins stacked,
Secreted at the heart and welded tight
To the bones that hold you here upright,
Steady, but bendable - for your stand
Against the babble and the bad seed
Means you bite the proferred hand
And feed your own strength inward,
Made drained and emaciate by all the sad
Complacency of type you've had to greet -
(enough to make you weep) - enough
To almost push you from your rung
So hardly won.

Then there's the sun, the evening sun
Going down aslant on this small town,
And I, I am looking down.
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