Hear the Chimes

In a moment
I will hear the chimes
of a familial porch
I've never been,
where the sun warms
a spot
just for me
on the lap
of a gentle
Father.

Dig deep, dig far,
close the door 
on all the noise.
Pull me to
where no one goes.
There, Father waits,
to pat my head,
to hear my call,
and loose the cramp
which is
my heart.

Softly, softly,
I can't break.
Father holds me whole
too well,
though I often wonder
what would spill out
if I did,
and if my mind
would then be free
through the true liberty
of madness.

I am not great.
Don't make me so.
King my Father may be
but a princess
I don't want to be.
For the greaters come
from battlefields
and forges wrought
with magma
with flame,
with pain.

But I,
just I,
am nothing so brave
in my honey
sun-warmed seat,
hiding in a dream,
a breath,
a seam.

But...
Oh, gentle Father,
whose lap holds
my beligerent head
in the place
I've never been,
may never be,
who holds my peeling seals
with tender glue
and quiet words,
and quiet places...

If such a one 
should ask of me
I shall.
Not for glory,
not for strength,
not even for the joy
you promise me.
But because you loved me
and held me.
Such a palm
upon my head
can't help but invite 
my so-so soul
to nuzzle back,
basking in a light
I scant
remember,
but must exist.

But hush, a moment,
I hear the chimes,
distant, non-existent,
they may be.
You have yet
to ask of me
to raise that royal mantle,
the colors of Great,
and don about me
the dreaded armor
of holy steel
for a purpose
I can't see.

For now, Father,
warm me, keep me,
beneath thine palm,
real
or imaginary.
Pet me, soothe me,
fix me up,
and I will try hard
to believe.

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