Don't . . .

Don't come to me for advice,

That well is dry.

Ever since I was a child

I have searched for my place in the world

And it has eluded me.

Or perhaps excluded me,

For there always are gates,

Either guarded or rusted shut,

And one must bribe one's way through,

Or be able to vault,

Sailing above at perilous heights,

Skimming the barbs,

Landing in rosebeds bristling with thorns.

Circles of protection work both ways:

They repel the unwanted, but reflexively,

They keep their tawdry organa confined.

I'm fine with that.