Barehanded,
I scratch out the sands
Of the dying desert
Of eternal decay.
For the note left for me
Written in water,
Has seeped its way down.
Deeper it goes, still.
Sinking,
Into the deluge of dreams, they serenaded Soul.
Here,
My longings linger on,
Persevering,
In a garden of thorns.
Suffocated,
Beneath the surface of the Self;
Under the ever-piling pressure
Of perpetual metamorphosis.
Onwards it goes, still.
Still,
I believe
That I do not know myself.
I know
That I believe in nothing.
In the cradle of this knowledge,
Sleeps my Humanity.
Embraced does my ignorance stay
In the arms of the loving Mother.
And
In the knowing of the little,
I am learned.
Often,
When the eyelids of reality
Are heavy with the slumber of hope,
In the soft stillness of my being,
I am saved.