What is wrong?
What is wrong, that I pulse staccato?
Finding no peace in a manuscript of words.
What am I forgetting that eludes me?
Fingertips edging a shell of fleeting thoughts.
Darkness soothes my unrelenting light
dreaming of a small purse on a silver wired shelf.
Ignoring my treasure in pursuit of petty things?
What petty things? Creator of all things,
all there is, what gain is there in symbolism?
What purpose to hide meaning in celestial poetry?
Why can’t the alpha and the omega just spit it out?
Is there a universal law against clarity?
Leaving my treasure unguarded while walking
the theater of life in pursuit of a meaningless show.
A foolish woman intent on the light blue washcloths,
the drama of made-for-TV entertainment, where
at the end of it I ask, “Why did I waste my time on this?”
When I find my purse, I ignore it. What is wrong with me?