Most nights I gaze at my psychic mirrors,
pray, then plunge through reflective surfaces,
fearful coatings, to substratum’s terror
where my disease lurks in disguised traces
of my day’s hiding thoughts, coated false words,
most of all my subtle actions slipping
mixed messages to folks who thought they heard
honesty pouring from me. While gripping
my book’s blue cover, I review each hour’s
content, shine bright light where I spot decay,
beg to not deny its subtle power
to spread and destroy this faith, nor delay
inspecting its cause. I recall its cure:
spirit’s balm bringing peace, even rapture.
Roger Armbrust
April 7, 2010
