The Summit of Self

 

You’ve traveled far to see me, child,

and never told me why.

Am I supposed to love you, hate you,

live with you, or die?

 

You’ve traveled far to see me, child,

but I don’t know your name.

Am I to solve a riddle or to

play a guessing game?

 

You’ve traveled far to see me

following some long dead star.

And now you stand before me here,

so I’ll know who you are.

 

No longer sentient, my child.

Not able to inquire.

I can no longer see or hear

your circumstances dire.

 

I’ve no advice or wisdom.

You must learn them on your own.

The maggots feasted long ago,

and sharp fangs cracked the bone.

 

I’ll say your name to you, my child,

and I will speak it true.

The skeleton you gaze at on this mountaintop

is you.

 

Descend now from this mountain, child.

There’s nothing for you here.

Death’s but a silent, endless dream

and so you mustn’t fear.

 

You weep, my child, but foolishly.

The fate of all is this:

the gods who see us war and play

betray us with a kiss.

 

 

No Words in the Well

The rainy darkness brings

no comfort,

and the late hour

no sleep.

 

The mind shambles

past the murky thoughts

submerged

in the stagnant water.

 

Its robe, sodden and heavy,

clings as it lifts the

dimming lantern

of moonlight’s end.

 

The squeaking creak of a crank

breaks the silence

as the worn bucket descends.

 

A small splash speaks to

the shallowness of the water.

The mind shuts its eyes,

somewhere between frustration and relief.

 

Nothing fills the bucket.

 

There are no words left

in the well.

 

The day’s writing is done.

The mind shuffles back

to its darkness,

closing the door

on the rainy night,

 

and sleeps at last.