Sunday, July 22, 2012


Lumens every lump and wrinkle of
My practice
Lucidates my fears

The ruthless dawn
Encourages anxieties to
Chat me up at breakfast
Intimating that

If I were really
Always getting better, I'd be
Really good
By now

Even incremental progress would
Add up (they hint) and
Reach, at last, a
Tidy sum

From there, it's not too far to wonder
How much of my progress is
Illusion, clever sleight of
Coaching hand?

How much adept
Redefining goals and
Grading on a shifting curve?

I'm saved, at last, by dusk:
With moonrise inhibitions fall
And optimism swells
The kindly dark obscures my flaws

The gloom of pessimism makes it  hard to keep my goals in sight
That's why I pursue my praxis in the night

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