One day I'll make an anomaly of myself,
rise from the cross-legged mat
pick my way through the crowd,
up the crooked mountain.
Strait is the gate and lonely
is the narrow way, one slipping
through at a time and in my wake
loved ones for love's sake;
no one to follow or nod approval,
my nourishing community shaking
their heads, if not their fists,
at my peculiarity, infidelity.
God is jealous and the heart indeed
empty of strangers must be laid
upon the altar and how strange
are we all, human creatures; how very.
One day I'll be made
an anomaly of myself;
led to traipse solitarily into the wild,
surrounding forest and hills.
O child of God, you have an appointment
with your one true Friend.