Contretemps

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.