I call out, Lord, from myths of deep perception
of silent beauty, life, and death of man.
Wherefore we seek this image of perfection?
I’ve painted perfect flowers, just by hand.
We comfortably sway from right to wrong;
then rinse our hands in conscience damp with vice.
Our love we give away to hold the prongs
of solitude at bay. We give advice.
The ancient ways, we dare not doubt, are wise.
The world we let them scaffold, etched in stone.
Our apathy as beauty they disguise,
but I can feel the iron grind the bone.
I call out, Lord, your humble slave and orphan.
The death of spirit, on my door it knocks.
I think Pandora’s box was never opened.
I think we live inside Pandora’s box.