Finding a Place
I always seem
to end up here, shuffling
along the river, soul deep
in its waters. I wallow
for a while like an old,
crusty animal, trying
to rid myself
of the usual parasites.
These pests gasp
for air beneath its tides
and thick mud.
A soul must have a place
to go for the caked on grime
of life to be washed off.
It seems a law written
into the DNA of our psyche.
For some, sacramental ritual
once scrubbed them clean
but this has fallen
out of favour, hollowed out
by hierarchical abuse
and an absent God.
Others simply ask
for a voucher.
Nature has always offered
its sacred spaces to mend
troubled souls. Or there
are caves you can carve
into the mind where a still
resides and encloses
a healing peace. Other
excavations hold effigies
who promise the faithful
any number of offerings
to soothe the spirit.
In the end, you just need
a place where you can go,
somewhere within a breath,
or walking distance,
or a mystery only the soul
seems to know.
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