You can take the low road or climb to the mountaintop.

Outside is pretty, too bright for eyes. Shine, sharp as a knife. The first time, by accident, mind absently thinking. And then came the blood when I was thinking. From my blood, the abuse of my Father will escape. Do you cut?

And then I was thinking and thinking. And when my hand came down, hair in my hands. Pluck a clear path, I was thinking. For the demons to escape. Do you pull?

No one can hear music as divinely as I do, with the ears of dogs. Every single emotion piercing in ways as foreign as opera. Worse, hauntingly, like pings from a piano. Worse, like a lingering hurt in the heart.

Blindly, my hand reaches for the wine. Again. Dry and dark as a grave, I was thinking. To lull the demons to sleep. Do you drink?

Then I slee . . . slept? And I keep thinking and thinking. And I rise up early, beat the sun, and run and run. And still they chase. Me, to the mirror. You run too?

My body, below the collar, above the wrist, I have turned to an etch-a-sketch. The scratch and burn, a welcome hurt. Then I feel. Are these feelings?  That I have built a lush green maze to keep the demons in, to keep them within. You tattoo?

I masquerade as a monk and skulk about, hiding demons. God, it . . . is . . . so . . . much . . . work. Shh—I dare not look up. I’m silent, too silent. And the mystery (the human shadows around me think I have) appears as good as grapes. And I won’t share, anything but silent curses. So they hate me, I think, and I hate them too. Who do you hate?

Just so fed up with these demons. But as much as I eat, I cannot get fed. Can you eat?

I’m too full, I think. I want to go . . . have to go. Purge right now. Do you purge?

I do. But not like you. When I write, it is from a mountaintop. Beneath me, the branches of trees braid themselves, make themselves small to wave and bow like palms. I hear (as divinely as you know I do) the flutter of angel wings. And I think, writing on my mountaintop, from the narrow edge of blasphemy and idolatry, at this moment, like too little help too late, I don’t even need them.

***

Idle Mind is a poem that attempts to ask whether changing your mind can change your actions and your outlook.  When your mind is idle, do you tend to wander down the low road or climb to the mountaintop?