Beyond age

It does not change,
that sense of self,
of me and who I
am, even as the

seasons winnow
harvests of flesh,
ricks of wrinkles,
decorating the

landscape of days.
Eternal is the
feeling of who
I am, always a

presence; firm
foundation of
this being I call
me, beyond age. 

Confession

How can I confess
to anything, when
I do not know who
I am? When, true

knowledge of self,
soul and spirit, is
unknown: shadowed
and refuses to be

revealed? Perhaps
that, is the only
confession we can
ever make.

Transformed

What was, is no more,
and yet it holds to
memory and mind,
struggling against the

closing shades, as if
determined to remain
intact, even as the
material evidence is

removed. Do all things
remain forever in their
energetic state? Eternal,
unable to be touched by

the purely physical, for
once created, they can
never be destroyed-
only transformed?

Fate

How the fates
deceive and
trip us - smiling
always at our
folly. Yet with
compassion.

Dark nights

I
Dreams in tatters,
hopes so deeply
frayed, optimism
languishes; so do
fears parade.

II

Holding to the
fantasies of past,
serves no end;
has no future.

 III

Realms of dark
being, on the edge
of sleep, there do
demons dwell.

IV

They haunt me,
hopes in stained
robes, drifting in
translucence.

V
Pain pulls the draw
string on the small,
soft bag of self,
tying me into being.

VI
Culled, cut finer
pruned by life's
blade, so are we
reformed.

VII
Scattered pieces,
mind in disarray;
soul selects to
re-member.

VIII
Suffering is
the language
of this life-
its babble.

IX

Whisperings
without sub
stance - taunt.

X

Transformation
waits with
empty hands.

Suffering

Suffering sits silent
in the bed of my own
making, huddled into
soiled covers, turned

in upon itself, holding
tight to the pillow of
grief, dampened with
tears of shame; so

does this withered
child of psyche, sleep
fitfully, in the midst
of life, ignoring hope.

Broken world

And in that moment
when the world broke,
splitting in unseen
ways, as if destiny

had written itself into
invisible cracks, which
eventually, would be
prised open, in silent

tearing, to ensure the
known, scattered itself
in new ways, to allow
fate to mould another

shape, create different
form, not yet imagined
or perhaps dreamed,
and yet lying always

as the seed of some
thing which demanded
to be birthed, brought
forth from the ruins.

So the world smiled
in its brokeness and
promised hope from
the dregs of being,

as golden light ran
through the wounds,
identifying, healing
and offering beauty.