I was born into wonder.
And stress. And concern
Placed in a world of infinite possibilities
and fixed realities
of great need and modest resources
Hungry and thirsty for more than food and water
Yearning for affections
in a world of afflictions
asked to carry insecurities up a hillside of faith
Told that at some point it would change
And all could be different
– if –
I was true
To my purpose
Or my essence
Or my reason for being
All of which contained magic within it
Especially if I mixed myself according to some great
formula
With what was around me
This mountain of faith has many plateaus
Where gurus of every kind of burrowed into hillside caves
Lit fires and chanted calls to the lost
I’ve already visited the romantics
who love devotion itself, more than any person or ideal
or cause
And the consumerists who stave off nagging insecurities
of having to go through this life without a remote controlled programmable
toaster
And care little for bread… or the many who’ve never seen
it.
And the nihilists who beat themselves and say, “I told
you so”
And the capitalists whose rise to heaven is on an
escalating ledger
And the socialists whose salvation is service
And historians who walk backward into the future
But I’ve not found peace
Which I imagine will be the place
I come across all these gurus
Propped against one another
Who’ve fallen asleep
Listening to each other’s stories.
