My retreat, my solace,
Where my mind goes to escape
The ever-ambient stimuli and chatter
It's my hiding place of sorts,
Usually, a welcome reprieve
Where time and thought are pure and reflective
My time to simply be,
To exist in a universe of my own creation,
To filter, percolate, and compose
The cave is an opportunity to explore
The recesses of my mind
That have need of a visit or kind word.
Some days the shadows are imposing.
Self-reflection may not always be ominous or feared,
But it is daunting on the days of self-doubt
On those days, the cobwebs in the corners are dense,
More like oil than water,
Or muscle than fat, if you will.
The cave can be tricky,
Treacherous if one is not careful
Monitoring the surroundings for spiders or falling stalactites
The cave can be a paradise,
The water that sounds from the earth above,
The pyrite on the walls that catches a stray beam of sunlight
The bravura of the cave
Is that I can find it
Whenever, or wherever I desire
No one, other than myself,
Can barricade the entrance
Or by any other means prevent my escape from reality.
The cave is not a place for presumptions.
Though it provides clarity at present,
It can clutter quickly, disturbing the peace and stillness
My rest, my restoration, and occasionally, my revelation,
Where I go when I have no control.
Here, it is safe to admit that I am vulnerable.
The place where the pragmatist can entertain the poet.
Idealism never suppressed,
In the cave I am free to become myself.*
*Holla a'cha May Sarton
Where my mind goes to escape
The ever-ambient stimuli and chatter
It's my hiding place of sorts,
Usually, a welcome reprieve
Where time and thought are pure and reflective
My time to simply be,
To exist in a universe of my own creation,
To filter, percolate, and compose
The cave is an opportunity to explore
The recesses of my mind
That have need of a visit or kind word.
Some days the shadows are imposing.
Self-reflection may not always be ominous or feared,
But it is daunting on the days of self-doubt
On those days, the cobwebs in the corners are dense,
More like oil than water,
Or muscle than fat, if you will.
The cave can be tricky,
Treacherous if one is not careful
Monitoring the surroundings for spiders or falling stalactites
The cave can be a paradise,
The water that sounds from the earth above,
The pyrite on the walls that catches a stray beam of sunlight
The bravura of the cave
Is that I can find it
Whenever, or wherever I desire
No one, other than myself,
Can barricade the entrance
Or by any other means prevent my escape from reality.
The cave is not a place for presumptions.
Though it provides clarity at present,
It can clutter quickly, disturbing the peace and stillness
My rest, my restoration, and occasionally, my revelation,
Where I go when I have no control.
Here, it is safe to admit that I am vulnerable.
The place where the pragmatist can entertain the poet.
Idealism never suppressed,
In the cave I am free to become myself.*
*Holla a'cha May Sarton
