The shed of one’s true glory
into the happenstance of life
a prerequisite to forgetfulness
yet the bough from which it came
sways in the breeze of time
and taps on window panes
draped with essential veils.
The veils are made to last
and they keep the truth at bay
like clouds on summer days
and they’re heavy like the price we pay
to be participants.
I stand like one distanced from
my own damn window pane
held so by veils ordained to be
there for no good reason
but to keep me ignorant.
Oh, glory be, oh, glory be
but not ever in my lifetime
because boughs tap to no avail
when soundproofed is the mind
by impenetrable veils.
Boughs and veils and window panes
and the whispers of “Oh, glory be”
bounce back like useless tender
into my human stock-pile
there to lie as dormant
through the happenstance of life!
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