131103

1am

The time of the monk draws to a close.
A monkish question: is faith a series of days:
Rising, facing doubt, persevering? Or is it
A lifetime’s law to be chased down in spite of
Days, months, years when the object of that faith
Has been all but forgotten, no more than a shadow
Of a shadow of some form beyond recall?

Is sour luck sent to test that faith and drive it
Underground? The fickleness of friendship too,
In cities the size of states. The loneliness their
Citizens share, each version a snowflake of its own.
These conditions combine to lure faith away,
Abandoned to city foxes’ sniffing, leaving no choice
But the former faith: blind stoicism to will us on our way.