Your shine compares to Perseus above
My head, and while I ponder everything
You make appear minute, I can’t but love
The small existence of my lone being.
This myriad of scattered thought’s so quick
To coarse through knots of synapse, just to leave
Me stumped once more, irrelevant as tick
Of yesterday… His games… They come to tease
My solo essence. Why do I yet cling
To anxious frailty? You, sweet sky, are still.
I fret. Among my trouble, where this peace
Abounds with patience, come alter my will.
May all that binds me tight, rope taught and strained,
Be as a harmony, be as the rain.
– B. Rider, 2014