When you look for it,
it evades detection.
When you listen for it,
it remains silent.
When you think about it,
it puzzles you.
When you stop pursuing it,
it stops fleeing.
When you sit with it,
as if for tea, on neutral ground,
it sits with you.
As if as friends, on neutral ground.
If you stop demanding of it
it reveals itself to you
and then with any luck
you shall see it, hear it,
exist through it, and just be it.
Once you can be it,
you see how everything is it.
Always was. Always will be.
Inseparable, yet scattered.
One, yet many. Me, yet you.
My pencil and my paper.
My reality, yet yours. Yet hers
and his and theirs and ours.
All at once, yet forever.
Ceasing when we die, yet continuing.
Changing each instant, yet forever the same.
Then you see the suicide in hostility.
The reflective nature of sabotage.
The reciprocation of respect.
The beauty and power of love
in all it's ambiguity. For all, yet for one.
An old poem of mine,
figured I should revive it.