CALL ME BELOVED

shouldn’t a muse be lifting me up?

belief is so fickle, and it wounds me
like rose thorns, the very same kind
that are growing wild in the driveway
of the home I so easily left behind –
I convinced myself that the environment
was detrimental, and yet
beautiful things happen
every single day.

it’s far too simple for me
to turn my back on the very things
that I cherish.

I catch my reflection
in a smeared pane of glass,
wearing dirty, smeared linens
with a look on my face that is
far too satisfied – who am I?

who is this person standing
on these sore and tired arches?