Good Guiding Spirit

Open the front door.

Go to the bathroom, and look in the mirror.

Rags, a tuxedo outwore.

A formal occasion, lasting a year.

Hair cut with kitchen scissors,

A shoddy attempt to go back to that first... 

You’ll never go back. 

Wash your hands, quench their thirst,

And turn off the faucet. 

Drip...drip...drip.

Beads drowsily dribble from the spigot.

You’ll never go back.

A great gush of water and blood pours forth,

Flooding your once so sturdy body, now filled with holes.

In what might be your last thoughts your mind floods thenceforth,

“Lamentations, Lamentations, Lamentations”

As you succumb to the water, you hear a voice cry out,

“His love is new every morning.”

You awaken throughout,

Permeated, drenched, but breathing.

You place hand in hand.

Socrates believed he had a daimon inside of him,

A guiding spirit.

His mission limned:

Care for the souls of Athens.

399 BCE: Socrates is executed by his fatherland. 

You understand?

Where are you being guided, and by whom? 

The answer lies in your own somnolescent divination, exhumed.