Sculpture by Olga Ziemska
It always begins with
a moment of doubt.
A don’t know.
An unsure.
That is the exacting part.
The part where
the mortar cracks and
the armor falls and
we quest for hidden stones
on the muddy bed.
The part where,
There must be something to this.
I will have the last word,
slips in.
The mind greeds for its victories,
so the words congregate,
and the stories spill.
But stories are
the swaddling clothes
of the wounded ego,
the flawed foils
of a thieved reality.
Promises. Promises.
Come. We deliver.
But one intimation at proximity,
and they smugly demand
we keep our distance.
Only the body discerns
without vacillation.
Only blood is
voiceless and
true.
Everything begins
and ends
here:
Inside this body this life,
this labyrinth this journey.
Inside this vastness this space.
Inside this wall-less temple.
Inside this wordless language.
Inside this chariot without wheels.
