why do we start as something,
give others the impression that that something
is our true something-ness when in truth
we are something much different indeed?
what is the starting place of our deepest self?
When living day to day, how do we know
we’re giving to others that which
comes from living places and not from dead places
merely adorned with glitter and trinkets to make them appealing?
where are the lines drawn between obligation and self-respect?
When does serving another embezzle their need
to capably discover their own inner strength?
When does such a question even matter –
if at all?
how can the coal dust accumulating on my layered soul
be removed to reveal the sheen of love,
framed in hope, birthed of grace that you see?
That I see in my better moments?
I speak no more.
Instead, speak, for your servant is listening.