I sit in my home,
Weary and worn from the day’s battles,
Missing art and literature and music.
Yet I live in a microcosm
Of the archetypes of the universe.
In one bedroom,
The scholarly archivist curls under a blanket,
Poring through stories in books
Worming knowledge into her brain
And tunneling to new people and places and ideas.
The matriarch stands
Old wise eyes in a young head
Seeing a need and trying to meet it.
Leading weaving into following and working together.
Sprawled on the sofa
Lies the warrior.
The heavenly steed rides the starry skies–
To see and fight bullies, books, and boredom;
To protect and heal faithful friends.
At the computer
Sits the mage world-wise and cheery.
Taking the nothingness resulting from broken relationships,
His arcane weaving brings lives and souls into harmony
And creates order in the infinite chaos.
On the feet of the warrior
Rests the faithful companion.
He wags his tail and desperately dashes for treats.
His warm tongue bathes bare toes
As he lives always in the now.
Too many roles and not enough time,
Too much experience and not enough application,
Too many tasks and not enough energy,
Too much and not enough love.