And I say:

that the torments of my soul

are enormous and simple.

And the corridors of my existence

lead backward,

toward unhappiness and bloodlines

that did not consult me,

in the ironies that trail me

like Karma.

And marked upon my past

like the residue of history,

is a discomfort of endless inconsistency.

A psalm, and a truth-rich reality —

a force opposing that of which is already

written in ancient ink —

becomes, that of which,

reconstructs us

as we move sadly

within and among the ranks,

a tragic parade.