This prose piece was written in response to a request on a course I am, to which I refer in the piece. I read this in front of my class this past weekend, and opened my heart and voice. It is about transforming, becoming, and wondering where the seams are to this life.
What will become of me?
How will I know?
Who will I see?
What will become of me?
Where is the forest in these matchstick trees?
On a march to this sea of oblivion
I have no life jacket
where is the soul in ego's empty packet?
is the thing called 'me' just a clever racket?
What will become of m?
How will I know?
Who will I see?
I don't believe myself
I don't believe my self
cries a voice so soft it wilts when I cross my arms,
so small it can squeeze between two quick thoughts,
so weak from knocking at my closed heart's door,
so tired it can hardly speak at all.
Disbelief lifts its curtain on a figure pulling cords
on my throat,
up and down, up and down, like six o'clock church bells
snuffing out the days' last candle, like so many men in
so many towers, as I count the lies, they count the hours,
up and down and up and down and up and --
STOP! who is counting, who is pulling, is anyone winning this game?
What will become of me?
How will I know?
Who will I see?
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