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The Allegory of Plato's Man Cave


Every day I promise myself that I'll try
to not be so alone inside
my head which is where I prefer to be.
And if the angels
way up high in their wide white sky
decide to look down on me, then I
hope that with their Light
they'd send some peace.

And I admit I'm dressed
for the wrong solstice
Seasonal Dyslexia I suffer from—
but that don't explain
the tremble in my hands.

Just as the predator
awaits with twitching tail
and salivating maw
before the burrow of his scented prey
I fear the moment that I step outside
my patchwork slipshod shell that I'll
be set upon my internecine grief.

And I admit most days I think nothing of
the outside world.
I'm content to paint pictures of buffalo
beside outlines of my hands.

And as the wetted stone
reveals its colors true, and yet when it dries
appears to be a drab, unlustrous thing
I too abscond from drama's wheel,
and anger's hold
that they won't magnify
the two or three realnesses in me.

And I pray each night anonymously
that the Lord of Hosts won't identify
this supplicant
who hides his light
between two tight-clasped hands.

And at the end of days
when saints descend
and chaos reigns upon the earth—
maybe then I’ll have nothing to lose.
I’ll step out from my cave
with what I’ve found
held up high within my hands
and there declare the triumph of the Peace.

And I’ll search for you
through the forests charred
and the harbors dried
and if I find you beneath a pile of
broken toys
I’ll save you with these hands.


from Combustible Sundress, released November 16, 2012



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