self-conscious

what to many are mole hills
I moved above with the weight of mountains
shouldered on my burdened neck.

what to some might be fevers
I fanned flames of the infernos
igniting until their last gasping breaths.

what to one might be solitudes
I shuttered out the abandonment
sequestered in this tormented mind.

this has not been my year,
and yet it has.

the boy from the bush
knows his orienteering lessons.
alignment with the righteous,
perhaps not one of those situations.

but the self-conscious
know the vim and vigour comes from only one source.

I tap into it, on occasion,
when the current well runs mohave dry.