I fear it.
I kneel on the warm side of my door.
I am the rich man.
I feel it,
In prostrate comfort on my bedroom floor.
In affluent dismay,
My prayer begins.
The low man lights the way.
He pleads from phantom cage
To let me in.
A holy light sustained
Yet flickers dim.
Entrapped in pleasures drowning desperate sounds,
I feel the distance.
Sparse excess I have dared go without.
A grasp at closeness.
How large a gift yet sacrifices slight.
A holy ember strains to flicker bright.
Draw him near or take me far,
From both within me, here we are;
That mindful place, that abstract home,
In low man's space we fear to roam.
Between prayer and prayer again
I am the rich man, now and then.
I cast a glance. The gold grows thin.
I bid the low man let me in.