Just now, happily shrouded

‘Illuminate my soul and preserve it'


Souls can't quite hope,

seems the stuff of foolish orbs,

dark, or as their wont,

comes cyclically revealed

and fullsome ripe.


Yet in those days, nights, count them,

something is gently turning.

Not without resistance,

not without clothes or inhibition

does the pilgrim toil.

Yet the thoughts, or better, lack of them

and all those other foils, masks, accoutrements

are slowly, and must needs,

lustfully, fall,

to the earthen floor.


Witness this, that you be grounded, granted grace once and for all

that would be, a lover

of your souls light.