Opus

On days like this when I wonder why I dragged this husk out of bed,

when the cold rain drips and seeps into every surface

and sullen faces squeeze by on a too narrow, soaked sidewalks

where is it that I turn for solace?

I can distract myself in tall tales of Princess knights saving kingdoms

Or Pathfinders charting new homes in foreign universes far, far away

But eventually the palliatives wear off and the grim realities of a world gone mad

still ache in this body politic.

When did it become so?  How did it become thus?

When did the steady dribble of corruption and malice,

the constant flow of bad news and hate

leach the reservoir of goodwill and compassion that

is your birthright, nourishment and purpose?

Can you identify the source of the churning and feverish anger

that now poisons the well in self-righteous opacity?

What reflection do you see in those dark, aggressive waters?

Blame is peddled like an opiate among addicts,

never enough to go around.  A hungry bottomless, swallowing, abyss.

But the finger pointing to the moon is not the moon.

It is easy to cast aspersions but they are simply

more distractions, more ways of avoiding  

that which is truly feared?

a freedom so immense, a liberation so unmoored

a compassion so deep, that

other and movement itself  betray.

And yet in stillness

I am.