My eyes rest in the midday light,
The world's many places — not at rest,
Like anthills hell-bent on expansion,
Yet each part paces far from sight,
Exhale.
Each conflict, each pain, each death,
Like a weight upon my fragile breast,
But blandly blending through my cortex,
Are carried silently upon my breath,
Travail.
Perchance the years slack the senses,
Or mere neglecting one's genuflecting,
Perchance the fire would have expired,
In truth I must quiet these pretenses,
Telltale.
A common sound pierces this meditation,
And mind and soul slack their chains,
This man recalls that he is a creature,
Pitiful and beautiful unto salvation,
Avail.
