Cold Comfort for Change
In our wailing
And shaking of fists,
Prayers to what we prefer of reason
Touch lightly on the thing beneath.
These gestures made through the movement of time
Rub softly and abrade the mindful eye.
Yet still eager for sighs of discontent
As they leak from curled lips,
As shaped by the unseen gnashing of carious teeth --
Breathing into an anguished distraction
The pain of it falls into a of thing of itself.
We set fire to the altar by change
And gnaw loose from the traps that we’ve laid.
Mike Brady/ 2011