The Monk

Within me is a shack-housed monk,
He sits beneath wooden panels old,
Who smells the rain that beats on down,
Between my hears beneath my mouth,
He sits and roams and mills around.
His prayerful hut has not a God,
Not one he knows or has beheld,
He thinks of Gods to which he’d pray,
(In) Imagining he spends his day,
Too frightened to commit to (a) Deity.
One day his door received a knock,
“A God’s arrived no doubt” he thought,
Yet though he knew the door stayed closed,
He’d rather pray than that door ope’.
That timid monk sits in my throat,
Listening to winds that pass about,
His shivering hut that blinks and prays,
That nothing comes of what I say.

Vale.