Do I envy those who live on the surface?
Unburdened, shallow,
Depths unknown?
Do I envy a life
that hasn’t been thousands of lives?
Do I envy a life
that hasn’t been death
Thousands of times?
The death,
The rebirth,
The death,
The rebirth,
The death,
What’s it like to just know birth?
What’s it like
to live with a brow unfurrowed,
The suffering of tomorrow
living unborrowed?
What’s it like
to not willingly be Atlas,
a back unburdened,
to be a bird in those skies,
and not the one holding it?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 