He’s doubted little but that he’s weaned
His years of all his weeds of apathy; his reticence,
But the lofty presage of an onslaught of age and common sense.
Few could guess, of course. These calendars, the cauterized intentions
of his childhood all but gone and save for the rising of occasional dreams
In time might well have coupled with fear but then he’s met himself
And finds the chance encounter with the chasm oddly pleasant. He’s elevated loneliness–a badge of honour in youth–an essence
Among the many rites to be stacked and neatly catalogued on the shelf,
And finding no lasting nights, no respite sealed, revealed prayer’s the thing
Retained between the shadows, stale, perhaps, at times like flowers
Pressed between a fatuous journal’s soulless leaves, their natural powers
Collapsed within a hidden room where only sunbeams and dust-bunnies sing
Everywhere but in the rain. Banalities whisper endlessly; his axioms, hesitation,
There between the beads; his metered patience dwells to the side of resignation.