Knighted though you may be,
In your heart, deep inside,
No sweet word shall land;
Delectable praises fall short-
Relinquished gift, empty hand;
Empty- your own self decides-
Deprived that joy to see.
So rare, then, do they stick,
Propped against a smooth wall-
It wants not, or appears not to
Require those kind words that come:
It discards them, deeming them not true
The words in which sorrow could fall,
Slowly drawn, though purged quick.
And then, oddly enough it seems,
Respite from a tireless self-denial:
Emerges an event, not unlike from dreams.
When you find yourself drift about,
In ceaseless, vacuous space,
Never accepting any proffered gifts-
Deflecting nourishment out of fear
Or convinced they are poisons swift,
Weeding out herbs, or gardens deface-
Simply because you wanted drought.
Then the most curious feeling dawns,
Opening the myopic eyes of a new born.
This may not alter greatly your path,
However it does gladden, even briefly:
Erasing some sadness in a welcome bath.
Sometimes just meeting one remotely like you,
On realizing, after all, you're not entirely alone,
Undoes knots and disposes of the stones
Long weighing you down to the abyss in you.
Unless of course the stones remain,
Stirring not even with the heaviest shove:
Unmovable, and the despair returns-
Alarm yourself not, and think this through:
Learn that mere company soothes burns
Long incurred over sev'ral stoves;
Your wounds, shall no longer be as much a strain.
