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,
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.