We go on within the
fluidity of time.
I am called to
always swim upstream,
to search for the
romance of the headwaters,
intimacies that know
of themselves
only in service to
the greatest of causes.
Daily life offers
seepage, mist, fog and condensation
as invitations along the way.
They all whisper of
the truth
as if stories overheard but believed to be true
from these watery
spirits as messengers.
I look at them, each
one of them, discretely
as if a precipitous
mystery lay before me.
They all have had
lifetimes of journeys
immersed within the
sacred trust
that knows no
bounds.
If what I could sip
would match my thirst.
But the taste of
comparative truth
is my limited
language
as if lying to
myself justified.
They speak
but I only hear
quench and satiation.
I want to swim
beyond these gestures,
beyond the palate of
what desire calls out for.
I want to drown in
the sound beyond silence,
to drink from the
sing
before it
substantiates.
That is where I
leave behind
the notion of leaving
behind.
Here time has been
the surface tension
to float me.
I want to be no more
the sin of substance
to reflect my soul.
I want no part of it
that separates me
from all as one.
Water weeps and
seeps through me
as the religion of
living.
I don’t want the
marriage of what I breathe
to further represent
me
as if honestly to
myself.
It is worse than an
urge,
a compulsion or a
calling.
I am drunk, sipping
on experience
but feeling lost for
the vast soberness of soul.
Not soul in a
self-sense
but wholly soul
beyond what
substance could ever shape.
And we all, as
individualist, come through this
as we give up on our
separateness
and this charade of
ongoingness,
as our apparel of
time . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment