Dwelling

By Andrew R. Duckworth

In the list of things to think,
I think of the half empty glass
That seems the state of my soul
As I only ever ponder over the end
Of all things that is coming soon.
I can feel it in the air,
Weights like anchors
Fixing things in place,
Stationing for purposes
As we still attempt to determine
The purposes-blinded by
Feebleness and numbness—as we
Try to be as awake as we can be,
Try to be who we’re called to be
In this very late hour.
Dwelling is an art I’ve mastered,
But one I wish I hadn’t.