Updated: May 29, 2020
This image, so resolutely harbored in the cove of our minds' everyday.
What others think, expect and judge of us.
It always has been a captain's edict, just understood, irrevocably.
Or was it a misapprehension whispered into a child’s guileless ear?
How does a personal truth become granite, pockmarked, but still cemented
To the existence you know as yours.
Is it genuine, or simply a chimera brocaded in preciously, pitiable waste?
All of the time, worry, self-contempt and isolation
Was perhaps never necessary at all.
Where did it come from?
To know its origins could be a crone’s comfort.
But to shed the cloyingly deceptive, sticky weight of it
Becomes the genuine pursuit of a powerful life.
Alas, bemoaning the years of fogged mirrors
Only protracts the glutinous spell.
For only through rapturous gratitude
Can our belated, self-discovery find its tractable mooring.