It is early in the morning and you wake lost
a common occurrence.
The demons have rearranged the furniture in your head
and the scenery is strange, serene and dangerous,
a thing not to be believed. Dali-like in its normalcy.

There is navigation to be done,
a testing of truths, bright fires and sharp-tongued prayers,
an excorcism of the night lies. Hard work,
but familiar.

For you have long kept your instruments of navigation close at hand,
truths of God and neuroscience, hand in hand,
bright and hot in the morning, sufficient
to burn the fog away like confetti, and reclaim your path
before you begin.

About this poem

Most mornings, I feel like an ancient seafarer, lost, except for the stars to guide me. Except in my case it’s prayer and neuroscience that helps me cut through and start my day somewhere besides lost.

Tom