I crawled like a bug and dug
myself into the dirt,
sequestering myself from my “own,”
free from the surface,
deep in the dark
like night in a forest
I foraged, in the shadows
In search of a bodiless quiet.

Up above,
the skies rage with anger,
while down here, in the earth,
I’m free to roam, inching closer
to the cloister of a hermit hole,
a purity of isolation
like Christ in Gethsemane.
I’m safe here, eating the dirt,
while above “they” feed the ego.

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