Where eternity in
depth and time yawns undefined.
Around which an
impressionist pastiche
of the multicoloured
aspects of life are spun
in an attempt to
enrich the who of who we are.
And yet, at the centre of the me of
being,
taunts the Hag in
shadows of where we do not go,
for if we did we
would chase her around the corner
and the next, for we
cannot catch what we fear to face,
in essence, made by
us, to define the who of who we are.
We can chase it to
where we are not and find the same emptiness.
But not the who of
who we are.
Each paper chase will take us deeper and
deeper
into the soul of our
sole existence.
How far to chase it
down? For once afoot it leads the way
along a Möbius of a
mind that folds us inside out,
and vacillating on
the never of inside, the never of out,
we are doomed to
fail; unable to delineate the mist, for
as the minutiae fade
into insignificance we realise that
we may never net the
butterfly, fluttering at our heart.
Down inside the void of us it is
taunting still.
If we could only
saddle that stallion of mind
we could soar in the
white horses of the sky of self
and look down upon
all the petty constructs of life,
and turning to the
sun and to the stars we could say:
see there, where I
walked in suburbia somnambulant,
where l lived the deceit
of the quilted street
of everyone's knitted
chapter in the book of life,
where the hole of
self is dark down behind the spine
and bookmarked as the
page of the thought for today.
So, free-fall down the chasm of that
self-same self
and, bereft of all
the confidence of that deceit,
burst into the sunlit
world of self-awareness,
a meteor across the
blaze of Spring,
carrying a heart
resurgent unto the me of me.
Is it that hole that we fill with our
God?
Or is it God in the
hole that makes us whole?
Or is it simply a
hole without which we are not whole?
Or an alimentary
canal where the faeces of life
are recycled
endlessly around the elementary vacuum
of a vacuous nothing?
Zero zilch! Eh?
Take a look,
and
do let me know.
