When I go exhausted and it feels like I only plod along pointlessly,
when the road furrows my feet
and I begin to find flaws with
whatever happens to surround me,
I close my eyes and conceive imaginary realms,
though more real than the life we people lead,
weaved in phantasmagoria.
In such worlds I crash from my own party a meal all of mine,
I serve my own water and pour out my own wine.
And the feast lasts as long as I can last,
for the usher rings the bell whenever I tell
and only hushes it when I can't tell any longer.
I don’t miss other resources or guests,
a dog and a moon are as good as it gets.
Then I open my eyes and understand
that all I dream about, regardless of pretense, I own already,
and I don't long for another life or deny the longings
that amount to make this one up, I simply believe I can get
them all resolved without resort to anything heavier than thought.
And they know how to wait patiently
for the moment of their invention or discovery.
Fed on my elusive banquet,
I don’t blame chance but bless it minutely.
Through all the odds and ends of impossibility,
I pray with all my lack of faith for it to stay
with me all along, for without it
the world just doesn’t know
which way it should go.
Thus, no source and no thirst,
neither hunger nor abundance
shall lead me astray,
come what may.
Flinch, I sure can,
just not today.
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