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Sometimes I feel as though I am the Cathedral of St. John the divine.
Words that can only belong to ancient mantras reside in my head; my thoughts,
perpetually unfinished, waiting in vain to be retrograde. As you look at me
from the outside trying to decipher the maps of my illusions, my panes of
stained-glass sky dome disguise my wanting. I hold the world inside of me,
yet I don't let the world in on my way of thinking; my perceptions, naked
and shapeless, always on display for you to study, but never to understand.
I am I, not i, even the Microsoft Word knows it, for it always automatically
corrects me each time I type in the letter "i" that stands alone meaning "I".
I am I with hair reaching almost to my knees, with a catching smile for you to see,
and (unfortunately) with my entire shrinking vocabulary that leaves only silence
and blank pages, nothing more than what you can speculate, to underscore my desire
of misleading you into my misconstrued reverences. When you tiptoe in to survey
the beauty in my holding, expect to find masses of kaleidoscopic mists that radiate
contempt in full force, for the petulant child in me so wishes to be left alone,
for just a while longer...
Don't ask me to sin for I am the Cathedral of St. John the divine. I cannot sin
in the eye of the world. Although I hold the world inside of me, I don't let it
in on my way of thinking. Can't trust anyone, you know.
© 6/20/02
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