How close, how very close the details are..
I can remember better when asleep
how I felt then, though many miles far
away in both time and in distance deep.
The silhouettes outside the window! Clean
with lines as perfect as if photographed!
Yet never were such silhouettes so seen
outside that window—that part’s my mind’s craft.
But how accurate is it, even so?
Though never seen, that particular sight?
Do archetypes appear as artists know?
Is my subconscious wrong—or is it right?
I dream of home, though home did not look so—
what do you know, dream, that I still don’t know?
~~~
Addicted to the sacramental bread.
Addicted to the sacramental cup.
How can I halt when ever there I’m led?
When there is joy, how can I give it up?
Ubiquitous in daily life its pull.
The want for what every good man should sate.
But when too much is meet to make me full,
how do I starve at the communion plate?
How frightening to want something so good,
and want it such that love itself is wrong?
The zealotry for wanting what one should
has bound this truth on me: I don’t belong.
I must not eat the sacramental bread—
what gives men life makes me more surely dead.