Soul to Self
When you find
where you want
to be found, and
believe I'd find
you happy
there myself
and myself
happy there, too,
let me know.
Otherwise, I'll
keep wandering
around within you.
Self to Soul
What am I if
not these thoughts?
The thoughts reply
I am nothing.
And yet they remain
in love with the thought
of nothing themselves.
Shy, mysterious, dark nothing,
changeling among the myriad
of thoughts that know,
collectively, how I
is merely a patchwork
cobbled together, tattered
dressing, sorely lacking,
supremely desirous
fiction of fundamentally
shambling mess, a story
that wears too many beginnings
and endings added,
the tatty borrowed
accessories of memories.
Ah, but there, thoughts
see, maybe, on this happy
desert afternoon
among their weddings
of fragmented selfhood,
their tootings at my Sunday
bath, little Nothing,
the secret of it all,
which is of course you,
Nothing at all,
the romantic thought
of no thought.
Now what am I
to do with you
who aren't at all?
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