I wrote this poem in my journal this morning.
I reconstruct my suit of chainmail, a piece I had dismantled long ago. Needed again. I knit it together piece by piece, clink by clink. It is heavy and hot and restrictive. It is not me. But it is the only protection I know of that will shield against the poisonous arrows that rain down on all sides. It is not impenetrable, but--for now--it will do.
I then wrote this just after:
Deeper down the rabbit hole of darkness I go. There is no light. There is no warmth. And I can’t find the door out. Maybe there is no door . . .