Even Favor from the Odds

a Sunday morning prayer/prose

A Witches’ Sabbath or The Witches’ Nocturne; Francisco Goya (1746-1828); this work is among Goya’s ‘Black Paintings’

this one is difficult; please take care.

The irony of an emptied mind is that it ceases activity when I need it most. On every other day, every hour of every second in time, it runs. Runs me into the ground until I’m puss. Overturning every possible outcome, any outbreak fit to burst. A boil, a pulp of wood chewed into and with discarded gums by a brain that does not take a shine to me. We need a buffer. We are ever at odds. Stacking into existence the very precipice of my insecurities, balancing precariously in philosophy such that if I am, in fact, closest to ‘you’ at the end of a rope then my dear, darling girl…

we are here. And, I would love to…
but, I can’t. 

And I would have rather lived 
never having had the thought. 

Here in this pulpit, we sit apart. Sharing the same space and religion, but never the same language. I speak plainly, studied and practiced, but you don’t hear me through manufactured noises. Accused mispronunciations, woeful but willful. The irritable natures, the sensibilities that I possess that offend your own sense of purpose. Unable to come to any table that I have set because you deem it unworthy.

In this scenario, I cannot tell who hates me more. 
Lord knows you taught me how. 

Curs'ed be the ties that bind.