Lilliputian Self (Little Things in the Hero's Journey) 23.08.013

it's the littlest things, like
hearing her call him "David"
instead of "Dave."

it's the tiny things, like
the house I'm living in
being sold, along with my childhood.

it's the big things--
like my mother's tears,
and the way I know she must shake
as she tries to cry away
the reality of forever-lonesomeness
(self-afflicted, yet no less
painful; no less stricken).

it's the normal things--
like laundry, and lawn-cutting, and
the inevitable first frost
to signal Winter's onset--

that cause me to pause
and consider all that this life has
brought before my eyes;

all that I am, have been,
will be;

it's the normal things
that sometimes take me away from me.

these things pull me inside--
though I've fought the hero's fight,
and journeyed through valleys
and over the tallest of peaks

(combating the sun, shining in His
Zenith Pointe: radiating
stabbing waves of
carcinogenic engery down upon
[and through] me)

(fending off the moon's
perpetual stare: right through me,
and into Bone-- laying it all
bare [on the table], on
the manic monolithic plinth
of my frail psyche)

in search of the land
of milk, and of honey;

though here I stand, breathing
and always bleeding--
on the inside, or externally--

it's the little things.
it's the little things that weaken me.