I must come back to this Self - again and again.
What is the thing that thinks it is tired?
Am I tired? No. Now,
I no longer give it a name.
Now, I no longer make believe
it is a second or one other.
This is the only sin - I see it now.
The original sin. It is
the turning fully away.
A door seems to shut and
even suction into place with a slurp.
Like rubber heavy duty caulk
blocking everything from everything.
And still, I am here. As beams
of light shooting out from all edges.
I pretend I am it and I give it a name
and I sort of kind of in a way -
step into it. Just to see.
Just to feel and somehow play
with all there ever is to be.
I can’t see really anything. Only
blindly I seek. Blinking in then out -
groping, reaching, jumping there and there then over there.
And I begin to remember that this really couldn’t be
what I seem to have been fooling my Self
this life is what I see. And I start
to look for a way to get out and come home.
Done with chronicling and conquering. Now
only prodigal stories gain this attention.
It isn’t time. That’s the last thing
one gets. It’s forever that’s wasted.
