Why mock me,
my soul?
You laugh at my fear,
my discomfort—
truly,
you can be heartless.
Do you not wish to support
the one who carries you,
who bears you through this world,
who gives you voice?
But her response was sardonic,
veiled
in the inscrutable gaze
of the immortal.
She said only:
No.
My place is beneath the earth.
You befuddle me,
my soul.
Where are your impassioned pleas
to rise—
your admonitions,
your condemnations
of my scurrying about
with eyes blinded
by dirt and mud
you once accused me
of dwelling in?
Speak to me now.
Do not hold your peace.
She grew still.
And with her stillness,
the light withdrew.
Then I cried to her:
Where is the vocation
you demanded?
Where is the path
you said you would reveal?
Where are the words
that once
shook me awake?
She regarded me
with a gaze from eternity—
a gaze of weariness,
pity,
and surprise.
Pity
at my naïveté.
Surprise
at my despair,
my clamouring.
My heart reeled.
I was troubled,
yet I questioned her again—
for I sought truth,
not the laughter
that escaped her lips.
And then
I beheld her cunning:
the soft smile,
the shadowed grace,
the serpentine whisper
that stroked my vanity
and named my weakness.
I was outraged—
swept away
in the bitterness
of humiliation.
For her sake
I had purified myself.
I had swept
the chambers of my being.
I had raised secret altars
and brought burnt offerings—
sweet fragrances,
myrrh
and frankincense—
before her concealed throne.
But she overturned them.
Cast them aside
as menstruous cloth.
And her dominion dissolved
into wandering chaos.
Yet when she spoke again,
her voice was
as flame
in the cold places
of the heart.
And like a lamb
to the slaughter,
I followed.