The more I think — the more I know —
That "I don't know" — is all I know —
The more I know — that I don't know —
The more I think — the more I know.
I used to lay upon the Leaves
Infused with blood and ink and Eves
Where Ash and Water left a Trail –
A thread, I sewed – and named A Tale
And there I hummed and spun the Bone
With shelves of stone and signs unknown
And mine were carved by songs of Yore
With hands and eyes atop the Morn
Perhaps we sang, my signs and I
Perhaps we danced, my Leaves and I
But that was Then – when songs were sung
The Snow is here, where none is rung
And Here is dim, and grey and mute
The wind is still, no voice or flute
Perhaps 'tis true – no bow nor string
No thread immune – He cannot sing
I drowned my days in ample waste
A sense of doom — a sense of haste!
Engulfed my skin — possessed my bones
Replaced my voice with brittle tones
All shapes are lost within this loop
A scene would flash — with frantic eyes
To play its piece — a soundless troupe
Deceased, the bones — replaced by cries
As newborn forms encased in ash
Their fate entwined in frozen waves
Reflecting on potential truth
Unsure — they seep, in creeks and graves
How can we know the Truth of Truth?
When all we see is partly Us?
Is there a land of molten Fact?
Where all agree and none discuss?
Making fun of objectivity
I cannot seem to see as well
As selves deceased, I laid to rest
It is the law - bereft of sense
The hoarding thing - The passing guest
I envy you, o bygone self
The eyes you held - The words you kept
And now I hang - But where I hang
A place between - A place inept
A poem about one's past selves
— The End —