The Responsibility of Myth

Imagine how difficult it would be to sleep
in a bright room, sit naked on a splintered bench,
find pleasure on a metal table. Extend your arms,
touch the smooth surface beneath, stretch
until your shoulders ache, your fingers tingle
with effort. Focus on the desire in your gut,
the urgency for release, to pee, to shit,
to fall to your knees in shame, reconciled.

Deeds done have consequences, should,
a dare made when more self-possessed,
when anything seemed possible, nothing
to lose, the weight of the universe lifts,
Atlas, free at last, holds only an empty promise.

The heavens are telling, if the world could
hear, see the intricate ablutions the body bears.
If there is to be eternal quiet, let it begin
with an exhale, mean and now, in the rattling bones
when belief is rendered bare, stilled.