The monk’s cell is spare, 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.