The dome of my small skull is dwarfed, Love, by,
the dome that’s overhead – of blue,
or gray, or stars – a freckled sky –
as is my mind a speck compared to You.
Yet often I live mostly in my head,
although the mental room is minuscule,
when I could live within Your world instead
and not remain a skull-sequestered fool.
But my imagination, like a gull,
soars from the confines of this little dome,
this fragile, mortal firmament of skull,
and senses bring me back to Earth, dear home.
A life lived in the head may soon grow dull.
A universe unfurls outside the skull.


Mario A. Pita

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