You are the way you think you are.
Exactly that way.
On a rope
Gripped tight—white knuckles
Tension sawing through the bone.
Seeking to loosen
attachments.
Fighting,
To stay suspended
In the space
Above
The snapping jaws
Of some ill-timed
convention for
half-starved crocodiles.
What you think,
you are.
Eventually.
Let the teeth
and the frenzy
rise up.
do the Lord’s work.
Leave the bones
Splitting at their ends
as a monument
to knowing
Thyself.
You
are,
you think
You.
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