Departure and Arrival

There is no name that applies to me now, for I am not myself.
I am all that I am not. I am naught, and cannot be named.
I have left it, peacefully, without a struggle. Like setting a feather
gently down on grass, I have removed myself. I am no longer a
Self, no longer one insistent discordant voice, but disolved into
Music and Light.
I detach. I become grounded in that deeper space, the All.
Do you call me by name? What name could you use for me?
Disolved into All, I am nameless.

Deception

I can't tell you if I'm crazy. I'm not sure.
I will only say
that all the doors are locked from the inside,
that all the unlightened corridors wind back to here,
that all their eyes skin me like razors,
that all their movements are abrasive,
hurried and frantic.
To move with them is to be them,
And to not is to be myself.

As others stare into the peripheral blur,
My one focal point is oblivion to them.

There are hiding places in the crevices,
Where it is cold and quiet, save my own
blood, that flows with angry insects,
that chew their homes into my bones.
I need to rest, for the body is spent,
and to run is but tracing circles.

So in rest, the spasm and strain run their
course. And there in the dark are the voices
of those who have cared about me.
"Please don't" I say. "You're love is wasted
on me."

You are not crazy, they say, You are blind.
For love that is loved cannot be wasted.
To believe you are all alone is the lie of loneliness.
To feel you are going in circles is to think and behave obstinately.
To believe that your own emotions can
declare objective truths is to be deceived.

Layers

It began with an itch. There is now a pile of dead skin beside me, torn and removed from me. There is still more, and now I must decide, if this is but a layer to be removed, to allow for a transformation, or has the deadness eaten all through me, and I am simply unraveling me? Will there be anything left of me, after cleansing me?

Seeds

I had not known what seeds I'd sown.
But absentmindedly, I dropped them.
Distractedly, I watered them.
Preoccupied, I nurtured them.
And now all about me are but weeds.
Entangled in all I had not thought of.
Entwined in purposeless knots.
Caught in the incessant growth
of my own continuation.
For one builds cathedrals,
or digs graves.

Wheel

It spins, and yet again, towering before us, retracing it's perfect circle against the sky. All the seats are occupied and have been for all time. I hold my ticket tightly, and believe that I am next, but the hum of impatience and desperation presses upon my back, and l fear I will lose my place. The line is quite long, and the faceless forms breathe heavily in the darkness.
But the wheel spins without deviation. It has always been so, as has my longing to be on it. But the curvature of the wheel
is a perfect circle that allows for no infiltration. And that same constancy will hold me to it, for as long as I have eyes to see.

Sign

Move
Open
Dream and Hope
Lest the color fade
And cobweb form.
How soon we age
Our thoughts stillborn
When the open mind's
hinges rust,
And blanket our dreams
with grey dust.
Too soon did we forget to come out and play,
And fear did kindly help us to our grave.

Nothing

That which eludes me, overcomes me.
Absence is ever-present, and consumes me.
And in that Emptiness do I find my peace.
In my loss, there in my empty hands, is
the greatest of gifts. In nothing is my hope,
for it is the beginning of wisdom,
and the end of my sorrow.
In what I do not have, I do not fear.
There is no knowledge to challenge,
no power to defend. There is no love to protect.
I am the invisible Observer of All Things,
and I find I have nothing to say.