I pray a thousand times this day
my whispers soft patterns
falling to the surface
slickening that on which I kneel,
sanctified and holy ground.
I smell the woodiness of a room
conjured deep and primal
as earthy as any confinement
encircling this intimate time.
I am small and humble.
I bow to unseen forces
as long as the moment's passing
has given credence their existence.
The masters live a year for every prayer,
tenures without eclipse.
This profession toward empty space,
my vessel poured from one fragile moment to the next
spins nerves like turquoise dream catchers
fibers tight against bony frames.
However, for the stress
of a non-interpreted existence
it is relief against this shackled life
in which I try to convene the higher powers discerning.
For what is discourse
if not suggestion
be it from ubiquity or,
shall I suggest,
finite place?
I profess, I profess
oh great and powerful
here unto eternity
grant thy peace
a humble servant bowing
arcs far beyond repair.