We know more before we’re born,
When the soul is still one
with beauty, truth, pure knowing.

All the universe is ours.  
All time, all mass, every atom,
a thousand Angels on the head of a pin.

All paradox laid plain,
All mysteries resolved.
Then the great rupture, pure being
poured molten into flesh.

Charred Mortality pollutes
and warps what once was whole
and infinite. The skin, teeth
bone seem a gift,

but only does it seem.

Clotted and entangled, the mortal self precludes the truth,
erects a shelf we cannot reach, a barricade of rusty razors
against which we smash and die.  
We cannot help but live a lie.
Ask flesh and bone, they’ll tell you why.