Soul's Itch

In Solitary hour,

when my thoughts are my only company,

danger lurks.

Across the field of my imagination,

up and over the contours of permanence,

there slinks distracting influences.

Like seeds, they find good soil in unguarded

moments,

grow up into stumbling blocks

whose roots upbraid the ramparts

that shield the soul from defilement

and destruction.

In weakness, however, I embrace the

impediment at my feet,

and, in holding it, it becomes

the forbidden thing.

It poisons my senses.

It accuses me of being untrue

and of seeking fleeting pleasures only.

Against such an indictment I have no

defense.

I am dead to rights

and dead.