Your life as I know it now has been reduced
to making copies of the real thing.

You are a man left, looking to a machine
to streamline, solidify, simplify.

In its presence you find refuge from the whir
of questions that might if you listen lead you
by the long road to your life.

Your heart asks you again but you run to seek
comfort in copied bits and pieces
of somebody else’s answers.

Afraid of the original truth, you live instead
the facsimile life and convince yourself
you are good, you are well.

Like the silent phone calls you place to me
while making copies, like all you never
find the words to say, it is

Mere duplication, superfluous, unnecessary,
and serves no useful purpose.

Break out of the mold of mind that has you
marching to duty’s distorted call.

Find ink and words and voice. Believe
you have a choice to express
original conviction.

Live without rigid restriction, and make
some statement of authenticity.
Trust enough to talk to me.