To
live well for me would be to wander in a garden. An earthly one.
I
wonder at the bitter roots of my mind’s fruits—why am I so faithless?
I
have learned by turning on myself, yet all the while my soul abides.
I
shed myself and find new skin, moving from vesicle to vesicle.
Long
is the day and short the night,
but
darkness shrouds my inner light.
When
the sun rises, my cat rushes to the light.
It
warms her, she bathes in it. I admire her
ability
to enjoy these daily pleasures.
We
are not so far apart. I can see
her
intentions but I cannot reach
that
inner peace in her eyes.
Beauty
lies all around us, I suppose it’s in the eyes.
Too
often, I sat waiting for another to kindle this light.
How
deep seem my shallows, how shallow my deep;
for
that which the eye cannot touch lingers beyond reach
taunting
the proud. I approach my shadow.
Who
approaches? I AM, speaks my soul.
Let
us not linger too long in the depths. Brevity is the soul
of
wit. Sometimes, I am troubled by long nights. My eyes
burn
as I squint in the dark. I should be sleeping
but
a question is stuck in my throat, longing
to
be announced. Am I that, which I am?
As
soon as I posit myself entire, I enter a labyrinth.
This
wandering life can grow weary. Where is the center of the labyrinth?
One
tires of the spirit’s walls. I long for an audience with my soul.
Invocation
is less than worthless. I seek, it recedes.
My
mind knows not what it asks.
I
seek Ithaca—I am at sea—
must
I make of these breakers my home?
I
see some distant mass and long to find my home.
I
think I am found; I move through a labyrinth
of
familiar shapes, yet they seem empty.
Perhaps,
I am wrong. Maybe home is in the apse of the eye.
My
wondering is self-reflexive (I am at odds with myself).
Once
again, I ask: where is the heart of the labyrinth?
Night
is forever; silence waits at the end of delight. Doubt is a labyrinth;
innocence
loses its way. The spirit rooms in the soul, passing another day.
My
heart is like meaning, it works thanklessly for me day and night.
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