The Master Visits


I slice open my soul

And beckon the bard

Into my den of disrepair

I move the ill-mannered motes

Of declarative dross

And see-through simplicities

Into a corner cluttered

With my cloying costumes

Of sumptuous self-regard

I plump the pillows

Of my suppliant sofa

And wait wordlessly

For that vulpine voice

To rise renewed

From a deep, distant well

I drink delicately

Blushing before the beauty

Of his watery wisdom

The sage snickers

“Nothing I own is mine

These pearls I proffer

Fell from the firmament

Before the birth of the moon

Angelic artifacts

I pluck from the petals

Of the Maker’s morning glory

And store in this sagging satchel

I clamber to crowded cities

And melt into the marketplace

I am a broker in a bazaar

A consignment clerk

Offering the oracle’s

Tattered truths

And misshapen melodies

With a wry wink

Hungry hips

And a serpent’s smile

Take these trinkets

Tarnish them

With your terrible truths

They are only as holy as your heart

And hallowed as your humility

Only wisdom that can walk in this world

Passed from a pilgrim’s palm

Into a scarred spirit

Can be reckoned as righteous”



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