There was a time,
And never was there a better place
To behold in such grappling possession
What I found in the morass. Burning contrite embroidery on my skin. Round and rough, in fine cuts and scrapes I held it; the shrewd element of their design drew parables of faith from my failing veins. What I found there, beguiling and so rightly devastating, there and only there in the mud have I seen it; discovered it sitting there again and again. Forever and ever.
They say Joseph molded out into bone of steel. Molded in all senses of the word from the empty well to the nimble structure of Pharaoh’s storehouses. In all and overall he prospered though at times it seemed most contrary. It perplexes me so to imagine what kind of hope he stored beneath his rags in that dungeon for thirteen years. I have wondered and mulled over many a night in my torture, hoping to seize and swallow its grandeur. On one in particular, tentatively, I took hold of a thought, held it over my throbbing frame. It shook and stirred violently, as if someone fought to disperse its notion from my mind, leaving me unsettled, but by God, there in my frontal it settled. Quite nicely, a rough stone of sheer enchantment. But in the mud, it lay untouched by anything of adornment. Uncut, its rigid surface dazzled flames at turning under light. Flashing gold though it held no quantity, sapphire though the sky hid behind an unknown darkness, amethyst though it though it shone clear white, emerald though no grass swayed in sight. In elementary perception, I saw these lights as simply bending, light-induced. And no doubt they held such science, but no doubt, I saw a source as well. Certainly, light stood overhead, a lamp — but a lamp unlike I had ever seen it. A face bedecked in diamond fire, pure white clothing he wore, resilient as the sun — I concluded the figure just so, the Sun. Still and un-flickering, he spoke words I cannot bear to envision. A litany I keep in the navel of my heart. Stilled and beaming I sat up on edge, denying my cruel breathing. In the night, here my eyes foretell a story of my own. I light my lamp further and begin a thesis,
One of impassioned glory
That would become me someday,
“What he found, there in the bottom-well, is a rough-stone allegory.”