The monk’s cell is bare except for solitude.
Plenty of that which I have shouldered
outside these walls my whole life –
marked by it, encapsulated, enisled.
Is it everyone, I wonder, or just me?
Much like I wonder if there is not
at the heart of everyone, where the self stands
naked before its own illegitimacy,
an inherent antipathy yoked with a desperate longing
for that which is True; that which is Whole -
the solitude of the monk’s cell
and our impenetrable selves
merely the lonely, persistent honesty
of every beating human heart.
O child of God, the self is built
of fallacy, reclusion and alarm.