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 and it recedes.
My mind knows not what it asks.
I seek Ithaca, but I am at sea.
Must I make these waves, 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.
