Deep down

Deep down
in the sullen socks of Self
I see my truth rubbed raw,
in holes of irritation,
in stretched unfeeling threads
which pull upon
my trodden dreams
in ancient, aching dread.

The ego

The ego stands in mirrored face
observes, defines, demands
and dictates to the song of life
it's own mishapen plans.

Caress

Caress of breeze in sensuous touch
as daylight draws her gown
and drifts in deliquescent dance
upon night's trailing hem.

Your truth

In shuddered slow surrendering
I gave myself to you
and found the journey
through my soul,
led gently to your truth.

We are but actors

We are but actor's on the stage,
director, writer too
and everything which comes to us,
is our created truth.

Do we choose

Do we choose this life before we come,
decide who we will be and place our trust
in parents known, and friends and family?
If paths are drawn and times are writ,
by our own mind and hand, then blame
can only ever be, a part of the great plan.
As actors on the stage we move in sure
and certain ways, to live the days allotted;
to learn, to grow, to play.
We draw the curtains open wide and step
into the light, embracing both the days
and nights as backdrop to our tale.
And when the play is finished, the curtains
neatly drawn, we gather in the dressing room
to write a life once more.
It's just another story, more time within
this world, this stage of our becoming;
placed on Akashic shelves.

First day of a New Year

Within the ticking moments
which time has flung through life,
I see the image wrought and drawn,
sure carved through endless mind,
in ways which birth beyond the now
to die before the dawn,
in riddled moments born in night
and suckled at the breast,
of dawning year, and drizzled hopes
to draw me ever on,
toward the source of all that is -
to what I must become.