The Weight of Discernment
The Creator gave me two gifts—
one a blessing,
one a curse.
As I grow in one,
I wither in the other,
another weight fastened to my shoulders.
The seat of reason—
here the fog thins.
Words are split open,
searched for wolves beneath borrowed wool.
My eyes weigh
the intentions they conceal.
A draining gift,
yet ruthlessly precise.
Words lose their force
upon this throne.
A smile from a loved one
feels like a rehearsed mercy.
The longer I remain,
the more they resemble marionettes,
moved by an inferior hand.
I register my father’s silence—
a verdict unspoken.
The seat of devotion.
Here, others eclipse the self.
These fractured hands
press gently into foreign scars.
This muted voice
reduces fortress-walls to dust.
Their salvation becomes my wage.
I receive it with gratitude.
I wish my flesh
could be bound forever
to this seat.














