Self-Inflicted

If I embody

what I love

so that there is 

no need

to look elsewhere,

and every chance 

I get I

give that love 

away,

I will be saved.

For the rest, 

I pray they find

a mystery school

for the self-inflicted,

burdened by

they know 

not what.

A greater faith

in the literal?

For myself,

I am more

than

brick and mortar

in a time of

astronomical

rents.

In this year

of plague,

the days age 

like lilies

in a vase,

by week's end

the water

reeks of rot.

Yet, I have 

memorized

their beauty.

Its possible I’ve

run out of need

for a master.

If one

were to appear,

I would know him

by a signifier:

he always takes

the shape 

of you.

Clearly

my understanding 

has ripened like

sun upon wheat

as I see you

a foot soldier

in the field

softly

humming the song

that holds

our lives

together.

Yours is

a lesson 

in un-learning

and

I, to my 

dismay fear I’ve

outgrown myself.

Still, my own nature,

abhorring a vacuum

does not mistake

the body

for a 

set of clothes.

No, I can lay

myself aside 

because you teach 

a radiance

that cannot be worn.

Instead of clutching

at these rags

I shed them 

willingly, 

disarmed

by your

smallest 

kindness.

I let them fall

to the ground,

little more than

a dog-eared 

penny dreadful,

a tattered tear-jerker,

 a dis-owned crutch;

first and last sign of a 

sacred wound.

Asleep I am

merely

a flaccid flesh-

colored slicker.

Then be awake,

where nothing 

can be owned,

nor do we need 

to struggle

for any territory.

Fatigued at last

from hoarding goods,

I’ll float free

knowing

nature's mirror 

is nothing

less than

a holy

water.

Peter Valentyne

October 23, 2020