“help me God”
has become my cry.
Night is the spruce of existence,
and day is the scourge of its excess.
“save me God”
has become my saying.
Morning is the mercy of sleeplessness,
and noon is the betrayal of its effects.
“deliver me God”
has become my call for exodus.
Publicity is the plague of identity,
and privacy is its breath of relief.
“hold me God”
has become my flailing ebenezer.
They have eyes as biting as steel.
Words as cutting as a sword.
But in the night,
Preluded by the pain of day,
And in the morning,
Presented by the spinning failures of mind--
In the public,
In the private,
Where I am exchanged for a wardrobe of masks,
The spruce of existence
Is the presence of love.
Naked I came, naked I’ll leave.
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