I search through the clutter in the attic
for an esoteric prayer technique
in light from a window just out of reach.
I mistake an ancient portrait for a mystic.
Choking in a cloud of unknowing dust
distracted by an chant in the corner,
by a glimpse of angels in the dormer.
I scrape myself on some gnostic rust.
Poking around in an odd medieval thought
I stumble and fall on the warped floor.
What I know doesn’t help me anymore.
The shadows of the unconscious are fraught.
I do not know how to pray as I ought
so, the Spirit sweeps through
blows off the roof
the floor drops out _ I float.
My hope is this poem helps somebody in some way. If it meant something to you then please let me know with a comment or a heart.
