My life’s work is sweeping,
brushing away cold, ice, fog,
frost, clouds, myriad things
of every shape and character.
My extreme malleability
made a broom of me in youth.
So I’ve swept complexities
within the vibrations that made me,
shunted fears and shadows into fires,
persistently sweeping. I’ve denied
the dark, and my own divinity.
But I’m done. Habitually frenzied,
bent down uselessly sweeping.
Colonized in broomdom,
I was never introduced properly
to sweeping ignorance away.
What does or does not require
the service of a broom? Like unto
many evolving brooms, I have used
my seeing eye to exorcise myself
from the doom of broom infinity,
knowing potential for womankind.
But, taught to be a bristled stick,
an instrument that has its uses
to alter or hide the unalterable,
I am blurred in bewilderment,
and weary of sweeping. Conscious
that skies change as winds blow,
and brooms abdicate in daylight,
you could say I’m disenchanted,
my falsehood opposed to my truth.
Enchantment was the worst of it.
Sweeping is not without merit.
Prev: Death | Next: Brush away sleep