Love Me in My Lowliness

I have mastered the art of being fine

Locked in iron hermeticism,

I have spent each September of silence

Inching closer to the throne of independence

Scrubbing furiously at my skin

And the coffee stains on my conscience

Stuffing packing peanuts into my pores

On the way to my coronation

I have torn through eternities

Chiseling myself into a worthy successor

Only to find myself not on a throne,

But a seat of desolation

Now I see that I am no different from the newborn

Whose rubbery arms grasp for sanctifying touch

Whose trembling rhapsodies demand salvation

Through the affection of another

Without shame, because he knows to be loved is his birthright

He is wiser than me

We are putty  in hands,

Naked and pleading,

Yet worthy of love in our lowliness