"Is It Dark In Here?"
I speak of "I" as if I knew who that was,
she wears mismatched garments,
has an implacable accent,
delights in the ludicrous
and cries at her follies.
Sometimes she's all I know,
sometimes I know her not,
she shocks and repels me,
drives me to other identities,
yet inescapable as my body's shadow -
or is it hers?
I've abused her, hated her,
loved her, needed her,
robbed, hurt and confused her,
or by her, perhaps?
A channelling scribe for a tantrum-mad child,
a Hymnal composer to the Goddess within -
Teach me, O Selfhood,
who is it that does these things?
It surely is the same human woman
that acquires drunkards' bruises,
and listens to callusing pen-hand sing.
So often, her thoughts are clichéd, but true,
too rarely she studies in silence.
The ten thousand "I"s are awed,
snapped open, destroyed and recognised,
inside the darkness, the stillness, we shall find.
If my soul indeed had eyelids,
would they close to the light that blinds?
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