we grant there is a territory, wild,
a landscape not of rock or river carved,
but shaped from primal feeling, raw and undefiled,
a thicket of the spirit, darkly starved
and lush by turns. this is the inner wood,
where ancient fears like tangled roots are laid,
and awe hangs heavy in the atmosphere,
a storm of self that cannot be allayed.

this is no flaw in our design, no fault
to be repaired, pruned back, or burned away.
it is a continent, a deep-set vault
we are called not to conquer, but to survey.
to map the swamps of trauma, dim and deep,
to learn the trails where silent sorrows creep.

and humility is not a humble pose,
a bowed head or a garment meekly worn.
it is the courage that the truthful know:
to stand upon the edge, of yourself shorn,
and face the churning, shadowed, inner space,
and meet its gaze without a hint of scorn,
and grant your own wild soul its rightful place.