No soul can serve alone

infections from the combatant
staring at the horse race champions
with bloody hooves
She or He sometimes whispers in my ear,
commenting methods that refine reflection
where was the wash in all of this,
ablatant cosmos grasping within our hard won skin

were it not for doorbells or delivery sales
we would have been written off early,
never starting the day without a dosage
of the complement of reality withered and burned
chanting like a cruel rhyming jewel lost
inside its casing where She or He would not meet me

not again after the failed rally,
though They tell me otherwise,
God tells me there is hope
God claims there is hope for so many of us,
and only tolerates my lack of enthusiastic participation

there are those of us not meant to fly on starched winds,
or so my heart tells me,
not like a window glossing hesitant cellos,
but instead we gather alone where no one can serve completely,
not against a violin backfall,
not against a berry bush on fire,
the smell of the burning fruit is my solemn independence,
not at all what God wants for me,
or how She/They/He expects me to walk through this experience

no soul can serve alone or fit within the vacuum of learning
no independent thought thrown away at the cuff of the hand
spirit’s reputation does not convince me to be satisfied, or experience of wealth
from the communication with the heavens or a lifetime under dross,
just my own preferred stalled doorway into a tremblesome shifting of needs
and even still God has not abandoned me, it took years of trials to get here,
now that I find myself here, I abuse the privilege of God’s company as normalcy