Shedding Skin.

In the Venitian cathedral, there are candles,
each one a prayer, each one a silent plea for eternity,
an acknowledgment that we are neither sacred or profane enough.
A middling life.

You are not bad. You are not good. A strange wounded whole,
anxious to travel to new places, to quiet places,
to be anonymous for a time, neither needed nor reviled,

allowed to set and see and feel without interruption,
your snail slow mind seeking zen, shedding your skin in private,
becoming a candle, a flame, energy again. Alive.