My Own Rituals

But I have my own rituals.
I combine these doctrines like a philosopher
In syllogism,
Papers spread over the surfaces
Strange symbols, obscure diagrams
Scattered over the mind’s surfaces.
So I count my rosaries, whisper
To the Mother and in the same breath
Dream of futility
And the vast expanse of the insignificant
As its own prayer.
I consider the beauty of the sacrifice
As a flower in bloom,
Petals red, softest; the sorest, and most tender
Kisses at the feet of an icon.
Yet I arise form the stone floor, knees raw
From its cold, stand alone
And peacefully retreat from epiphany.
I make spells with words, like every man,
And when nobody is looking
I cast them.
In truth I have these various rituals,
The curious books crept open about the place
And the papers scattered all around me.
And beauty might be the root of it;
But I never did decide the sacred truth,
And I relish all the more the secret question.

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