Wednesday, May 30, 2012
It is me and me alone,
the one who erects the blockades
which impede the path to happiness,
I am my own guide,
divine my personal maps,
and place each step upon
the routes I choose.
They are my barriers and,
if I choose,
I am free to strike the match
which will remove them.
There was a me that went to war,
all thrumming energy,
rising above the cacophony,
struggling beneath the fear,
wishing mightily to be invisible,
yet finding myself in front,
the place called Point,
from another view, Target.
I put myself there,
the trace elements of ego
so visible in God’s microscope.
There was the me who lived to serve,
fulfilling plans long dreamed,
work a pleasure,
doubt an infrequent visitor,
leadership a requirement
if one would be the
hope of the world.
I mean, if you start out asking
how you can help,
you might as well dream big,
small thoughts only
blemishes on the experience.
Now there’s a more contemplative me,
hating war as only a warrior will,
old from every viewpoint
except my 92-year old neighbor’s,
and I am yet unable to hide,
work which is wanted and needed
always seeming to find me,
and even though the monks say
it is all just chopping wood
and carrying water,
it feels bigger, somehow,
I think sometimes of a future me,
dwell occasionally on an un-me.
Once I saw that tunnel of light,
the one spoken by the near-dead.
I can’t recall if there’s a leader
in that picture, or if it could be me.
Some things simply remain a mystery.