perhaps you’ll see me
in the old wood carvings
where i had life, when i,
animated, rose to the best
mornings, some light
turning me right
to the sun

i have felt the slow
slip of grace from my
bones and i couldn’t
be bothered

the world indifferent
and i battered,

the abuse of long hours
stretched empty,

with wanting;

taking space.

will you chastise
my empty bones? flay me
for this sadness?

i am tenuous,
here, a little while

before it all goes away.

He looks about anxiously this way and that, and sighs that none of the brethren come to see him, and often goes in and out of his cell, and frequently gazes up at the sun, as if it was too slow in setting, and so a kind of unreasonable confusion of mind takes possession of him like some foul darkness. 
— St. John Cassian, The Institutes.
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