How clear is your mind’s eye?
Does yours zero in on your trove of wisdom?

My turf is confusion.
Facing chaos, while threatens despair
and narratives unravel.

How comfortable am I,
in labyrinth—
all I’ve known,

and all of which I map.
Boundless tunnels for endless aims—
to be seen, heard, and respected,
ones I suggest,

but even those that I
reject are ones to which I’d guide
wanderers whose goal was to explore.

I would ask questions, suggest framings
midst the walls of distorted mirrors.

I would validate feelings,
that souls may pick and shovel constructively

in navigating to their own ends,
in processing events—

not to think for,
but to be a thinker’s tool!

Is it hubris?

To wish to regurgitate what I have listened to,
processed, distilled,

of what has trickled down
in benefitting elders who’ve climbed
hard-earned stories.

Is it hubris?

To think one’s plight could serve a purpose.
To think one’s life could serve others?
That I would host the labyrinth!

Welcoming others to honor
the time and process it takes
to reconcile oneself
to the truth.