self in witness

self-witness, in a short term, 

is a therapy for the moment. 

syndromes, like veils,

alter my see-through thoughts 

with moods that linger.

like sight termed by a cloudy day,

having internals that banter,

with the incessancy of murmurs, 

on the every-day hearsay, 

as if mind-speak that goes on

with self-mentoring remarks,

as if it's still motherings.

for every day awakenings

are these prop-fest of familiars,

as if this frame of mind 

takes over the internal mike.

and I've heard it all before.

the same page of repeats spoken,

waiting for the self story 

to move the narrative far along.

I'll take anything unfamiliar

in my field of sight,

any drop-in of newly thought,

to interrupt this self-dialogue,

or some habit of mine

in spontaneous breakdown mode.

I'm looking for cracks 

in familiarity's tundra, 

to make new tracks

in overnight fading-memory's snow,

and new-found awareness 

in a foreign woods of mind.

slippage that happens,

when singalong's loose a line,

as just the slightest cutting edge

of keen across the brain.

for where sanity has it causalities,

I want mine

for the keeping . . .