Chains
          made of narrative
          we wear around our necks,
          happy and sad.

Some
          weigh us down
          others are decorative.  

They
          are like treasured jewels, 
          mandalas
          of memories
          of experience.  

Some
          make our head hang,
          others make our heart proud,  
          neither quiet nor loud.  

Some
          chains we break
          only to put on new ones.

Some
           we show off with humility,
           others with temperance,
           others only in the sanctity
           of good company.

Some
           cause our head to bow in misery,  
           others empower us for the sake of posterity.

Some
           we keep for eternity,
           ensconced in non duality,
           the connectivity of divinity.

Chains
           how we love our story,
           it is our identity.  

Shaking
           loose of our pain and misery
           might be too much to bear.
           What would I do with all my despair?
           Would I be strong
           and live long
           with throngs of epic memory?  

All          
           my battle scars would heal
           and disappear,
           but I fear
           I may be loosened to walk free
           on my own two feet.  

I wouldn't
           have to be discreet.  
           I could let it all hang out
           as I stroll the street.  

The same story
           unfolds from the same old mold,
           like it's been told
           and retold.  

How bold –
           this synchronicity,
           this karma,
           this samsara
           this duality,
           can be.  

Do we,
           really,
           create our own reality?  
           What does that mean, reality?
           And, what is with all this... spirituality?        

Why
           doesn’t God help me?
           I try –
           and try –
           without a reply.  
           My prayers aren't lies,
           they flow with wondering sincerity.
           I wish with more alacrity.

How do I
           unshackle myself,
           without losing my Self, but embracing myself?  

Oh(!),
Chains(!),
            I love you so.
            I do not know
            what would happen
            if I let you go.  
            For now, I just let it flow.  

Plow
            on with my retro
            me.  
            How silly(?),  
            to sit in my shit  
            as it spins, 
            round and round.  
            I fizzily,
            frantically,
            fanatically,
            wade my way through.

Weighted
            ornamentally,
            I display
            my chains.

Chains.
Chains.
Chains.