The habit of believing in our own limitation
Makes for a tight and practiced fit as we draw
The caravan tent from packs against a
Desert’s moonlit storm, and as we hammer
Down the corners of apparent protection
Then we must fight against expectations
As well because there is nothing we can’t
Leave hidden in sacks and fear drives us
To hang privately upon what we hold dear
Under the vast night sky and we help others
Forget the palettes of rich carpets that
We will set ourselves upon tomorrow
When truths have settled down between
The rhythm of tea and hookahs and sales.

copyright © 2012 Amanda Morris Johnson

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