For her
In all her distress
Who only in crisis
Can be worthy
Cared for

She believes only
With that necessary distance
Can she claim space
be free
Of expectations
Of failures
Free to rest
Free to fail

Because there she can do
And measure up to
What is required
There she survives
There she thrives

From the bottom
On the bottom
Forever down there
She’s safe
Though barely alive



Oh Jesus the guilt
Of seeing him pale
Drowning in chaos

Burdened he sighs
But never untangles
From his cluttered web

Smothered and seized
I grasp at patience
Like wet hands at soap
To no avail

Blind obedience

I never see it coming
Until I notice hooks in me
The manic narrator
Leveraging for defeat

It wants to talk
And it can talk
Persuasive, connected

Relishing it’s place at the fore
It strokes it’s own authority
Oblivious to time
Indifferent to place

And all the while
An exile is silent
Cowering in attendance
Believing ‘he’s right, he’s right’