writing

I suffer from an embarrassment of riches.

I toil under the labor of an untamed mind.

I wrest my soul from the cosmos each morning,

only to give it back each night,

beaten down by the burden of my own absorption.

 

I cannot escape the muttering.

I cannot hope for redemption.

 

It is both my prison, and my way out;

My discipline and my freedom.

 

I am crawling on my knees in the dark.

I am divorced from the general population.

 

I distract myself from time to time, a lover here, a dancer there,

But always I return to my front door, alone and in full.

 

Here I am awaiting myself in the foyer:

I hand myself a jasmine towel and a cup of tea.

 

I stride directly to my station without a sideways glance,

Passing the lure of bath and incense,

 

And once again I am confined to my lovely cage,

Head bent to task in thought and supplication,

 

Reflecting, enraptured, engaged,

And all bequeathed by God’s design.