Portions
The world that waits for me at the top of the stairs
is one of supreme quiet, and invitation_
To a pensive time of varying mood,
Strange and fanciful thought,
And ideas that burst like bright,
Exciting colors, over the furniture and appointments,
These alongside shadows, deep and grey_
This is the world of my most real self,
One of which I yearn, in paradoxical stances:
To escape, and to return-
For knowing one's self must be done in portions,
Else the whole of it would crumble,
In the terrible and marvelous scrutiny,
As a castle,
Fashioned,
Of humble sand.
To be intimate with one's self is a brave and worthy task,
Superseding that with any other.
