Written by Greg Phillips

My friend, what is the genre of my life?

Maybe, perhaps I am an old fable

Harried, yet I still sleep my race anyway

Lone Bat amidst the birds and the beasts,

A Grasshopper among the busy Ants,

A Fox ruining these sour grapes of fate.

Perhaps, dear friend, I am a tragedy.

Ghosts loom. Is there something rotten in my state?

Am I a comedy, held up for laughs?

Is all the world my stage, to play the fool?

Maybe, friend, I am a great fantasy.

My Kidney sliced open by fell, black swords

Sackcloth, arrow-stitched, replaces my skin.

Or could I be some wild science fiction?

Stranded alone on some bleak desert world,

Watching binary suns set on my days?

Friends, am I a lament? For sorrow comes.

My camels stolen; oxen all unyoked.

My vine shriveled up, my soul in Sheol.

Suffering clings to me like leprosy.

Friends, can I know the genre of my tale?

I think not. Genre is found in the end.

Tragedy ends in the flawed’s cruel demise,

Fable in lesson, comedy in laughs.

Who knows the end of the story-writer?

Omniscient, he plots my path, my end.

He knows the true genre of my story.

My end rests secure in his loving plan.

May my story lead me to you, oh Lord.

Only in your power do I press on.