But the routine that
has only stifled me
seems transformed—
even enlightening.

That same old effort is engulfed
by a fresh, genuine desire.

My chasms are the lines in fingerprints.
Microscopic and often mocked
by those who cross canyons
and cannot relate or compare.

They peer in from a safe distance,
sometimes squinting from many miles,
often reminiscing and guessing
from many moons or many rooms or many tombs.