22. Thorns (Myshkin, 2020) · quatrains

I’m alone with the roses this morning, at home, In the city of Berkeley, just hours till I roam. It’s not soothing my darkness, some storm wants to scream And there’s no place to hide, can’t pretend it’s a dream. I have savings, a market that values my skill; If I want I can effort, and pay every bill. Is it fear for my future that’s clouding my brow? Or compassion for artists, more starving somehow? Am I feeling the ache of the world’s growing pain? Will the old social order explode, or sustain? I have faith, but today it’s much harder to find. How I want to escape, leave this crime scene behind! I’ve been fighting so long with my mind and my heart I just want to be free, go to nature, make art, Be a monk in a cave, dig a well in my soul, Greet the sun, watch it set, be right here with no goal. Is the madness inside me the same as outside? When I just sit and pray, do I help? Do I hide? Is my comfort still driving decisions I make? Is my Highest Self peaceful? What chains would He break? Paradoxical questions, no answers in sight For the truth is complex, far beyond black or white I don’t know, I don’t need to, forget being smart, When attuned, I can feel energetic seas part. Morning sun has come out through the clouds, just a bit And my dark inner child, who was throwing a fit, Is now frozen in time, half aghast, half relief. May he find peaceful rest at the edge of belief.