Monday

I

Let the walls of the tower of my life in this world crumble and crack. Let them fall about my head as I crouch. Let me place the rubble at the feet of my Master. Should they be raised again, remade, let it be only with the mortar of His will.

II

Outside, the world rages, ties its knots, throws its lances. Split this shell, that I could not myself do. Spill the contents. Let us examine them, ridicule and dispose of them. Then bring the cool, clear Water.

III

Long has been the seige. From my tower, by the last pale rays of a falling sun, I witness the walls stormed, overcome, my soldiers carried off, one by one. I await my turn. Soon it will be night, more clear than crystal and cold. Beyond I cannot guess.

Rixford Jennings