this is what we must do:
we must spend time on the outskirts of our lives reaching in with our hands and muscles, so thin.
this is what we must do now,
ignore the consistency of all foul things, ignore their creeping and crawling, their endless calling.
spend our days on a wooden porch, researching words and gathering works,
spend our nights beneath grape vines and surrounded by painted glass; glowing.
this is a recipe for the sudden acknowledgement of what is good. and it could always be worse, just remember it could always be worse.
we must not hope for strength when we walk false paths, we cannot swim if we are on dry land.
this is what i must do:
i must gather the pieces of my scattered mind, i must bind them up for now,
for the sake of time. then i will climb these green steps, covered in history and the past.
i do not have to be what i am not, i do not have to worry about what has been lost.
and when i lay down in what quickly absorbs my weight, i won’t fall in too deep and tomorrow I’ll wake.