I am accustomed to uncertainty
and impotence is known to me
and I have labored over ages
to attain serenity
I have writ ten thousand pages
I have earned a servant’s wages
but I do not have a slave’s heart
and my freeman’s blood still rages
I pull the thread from craft to art
insist I’m ready now to start
become accustomed to desire
before these chains pull me apart
and cast me to the watchman’s fire
that waits for me beyond the wire
inevitable undying pyre
sole thing to which I can aspire
what
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