rebirth from within

am I only a bleacher seat experience of myself?

yet, I am that part of the lake of me,

that stealthy descends 

in the winter time of each experience

to a depth of my self as liquidity. 

a liquidity that will never freeze,

that lives for the beauty of inner animation,

that I sense where, 

there is stillness there,

in the confines of these overtures, 

of aloneness as almost sweet agony.

and yet, in slow silent soundless breath, 

there is a somberness ascending,

as if when the child within me

rebirths the worldliness of my adult.

for each of us, 

to our own self-sense, 

just in that way.

experience, as incoming,

is profoundly distractive. 

for the please of inward experience, 

is without the outward foray,

without the composition of a narrative,

and without even languaging 

as a fallback method.

somewhere within, this is what speaks to me.

and yet, I am reliant upon an outward context

to define me.

where so much of that grammar and punctuation is deceit.

truly, I am defined before meaning displaces me,

before cognitive takes the inner mike.

I have senses 

that will not make out well, 

into a worldly way.

I have a people-speak of oneness,

from before I took a self.

they choir,

before I outwardly took up singalong. 

they are of soundstage presence

before I was aware of audience regard. 

it is of experience,

without a self,

a oneness, before the outset of self.

maybe of a timelessness, 

without reframe or even self-considerations.

I give up worldly watching,

for the subtly of inner watchfulness,

as it accesses and refines.

this rebirth is ever the ongoing,

even before the intrusion of space occupancy

and its deliverance of me,

as if I am an I

and accounted for in the now

just by being a consciousness,

bound in time . . .