Wash Away the Lands
A sock here lying unwashed,
Betwixt the shirts and leg-wear,
All of them creating potpourri,
Messes of . . . my life.
Socks are unwashed.
My feet should be unwashed,
For all I go through life so roughly.
I am a force that cannot be stopped,
Traipsing all exotic lands. All the cities.
All the dregs in our small world,
Cannot please to make some laughter in our hearts.
I travel every land and sea and I-
Lift up my hands,
To hide my desperate plea I wear,
More carelessly and bald than I don clothing.
Never do I care that my clothes are musty,
Crude, that I have left them uncaring-
To silent mercies that may come,
To my room with their hearts bleeding,
At the semblances or shadows of my existence,
How could I care about their state though?
They do not understand, when my face wears this soulful picture,
Of all that I truly do understand.
I travel outward seeking nothing but the light.
A place to lie down and rest after too much worldly light.
I’ve spread the rays of sun on everything of man,
Rays that touch my features now, I surely pull off-
Like strands of hair, I must slowly, strip them off me.
I must scrub my body to clear my white skin,
So in pearly white and blue and brown my whole,
Will be brought back into the carriage of our Lord.
He will whisk away my hands to erase my plea for goodness,
As he has before, and continues to do.
My clothes I now put away gently,
Washing my soles of feet beautifully now,
For the fountain in my breast crosses over to these boundaries . . .
And I can finally be clean with water to my friends, who solemnly see my floors with dirt,
They now can contentedly-
Bear me, knowing that I am safe, that I have put away all the meanings,
Of my interactions with the world, and have come to a better knowledge.
That everyone cares so much. I am truly fortunate that they, and the Lord,
Have washed away all my pain.