There is Room inside the Cliché

there is room inside the cliché,
inside the flawed ennui of existence,
to manoeuvre insecurities,
to change the pseudonym of fear,
even to mindfully colour all the little boxes
that contain your life,
unless I am explaining this all wrong;

see, a monk lets his bowl fill with rain
not to drink the redeeming sky,
but to teach the prayers that leave his lips
how to swim,
for who can tell where they have to reach
or having reached
where they must continue their journey;

not-knowing finds new clothes
in the brocaded finery of faith,
without it, naked ignorance
fights to explain its own banality,
what purpose could an unexplained life serve
in its brief coupling with a complex reality,
the unsubstantiated doubts itself,
fears the unravelling,
folds itself into tiny boxes hoping
to survive understanding;

and that purposeless becomes a tortured cliché,
burying itself in its denial, 
smothering itself in disconnect,
one little air vent frothing on the surface
letting it manoeuvre,
letting it live,
letting it hope
that the prayers that leave its lips remember
how to fly.