Or
Morning came, he stretched away
The brittle peel of sunbaked day
And picking up the Times, he read
Each line through different eyes.
Collecting some things, jotting some plans,
He caught the first train to the sacred land,
Where, waiting for him, were souls to sing,
And he to harmonize.
He weathered through the morning hours
With flourishing care, and mounting towers
Of this-or-whatever to fax and file
And just crusting catharsis to show.
It struck him like a pang of light
That giving himself was not best done outright
In a grand display, but through changing his mask
For another, fine-carved for the tactical task
Of lending a spark to let the world ask:
Must I ignite myself?