My life has 
become a present 
a wanted gift
a kind of
cozy and comfortable 
given to myself 
no more quickies 
desperately trying to 
fill some void 
no more crazies
accepted as normal 
just a quiet 
and clean and 
calm little place 
I call home 

Even the ones 
I thought were
different turned out 
as the same 
is that reflection 
a reflection on
them or me
and who’s the 
mirror to whom

Out there somewhere 
beyond that door 
the world does 
but in here
between the rooms 
and their photographs 
and the memories 
that playfully dance 
in front of 
the orange flames 
I see shadows 
of times once
fade to ash

Do it
and do 
it well
and do 
it over 
and again 
and by
the next
try the 
why then 
will come 
and you 
will see

It is easy 
to find peace 
in one’s silence 
and calm in
one’s own order
but to find 
them in drama’s
droves and in
chaos’s own cacophony 
takes the kind 
of present being 
that only the 
truth of knowing 
one’s soul comes 
trusting in that