So it is with civilized care
that I kneel down to the open blank
pages of a crease-lined book and cast
my memories in its bronze borders.
You’re my marauder, my hopeless staircase
looting the use from my crouching soul and leading me
to dark places too deep to stay dark.
Unfold the burning cross that strikes this back
and rest more easy—
looks like the cobwebbed corners for now,
which are warm and sheltered
and only scary if I’m afraid.
It’s a trial period
that stretches long past due, circulating
blood flow for moons and moons.
and the echoes grow deeper as
footsteps charge off sticky walls and
curl around the railings. To get to
the cobwebs, I’ll keep going.
It is never-ending, never-ending, never-
less rewarding, cycles of moons and attitudes and
I’m a restless explorer
on the hunt for more, and I’m afraid
I haven’t the slightest what that might be.
So still shall I descend the well
and carry myself to thicker waters.