I suck myself inwards
Blow myself outwards.
I leave myself
And return,
But go nowhere
Tangible.

I withdraw myself
From myself,
I left myself
But will return.
I go everywhere
Tangible.

But nowhere real.

I go.

I stay.

I went

But remain.

Each day passes,
Passes, long, long and hard.
As here we toil relentlessly,
Through an undergrowth
Of an underhanded scheme of life
In this underworld:
This world.
Toil and tribulation,
Struggle and pain,
In each day passing.
Toil and tribulation
For pathetic gain.
Toil and tribulation
In each god-sent daily gift.

I am told each day is a
God-sent gift,
And life is a gift of god.

But this gift,
This deistic offering from this
God is the very thing
That holds us,
Keeps us, takes us
And rapes us.
For with each day
Comes the toiling,
The tribulation,
The strife and pain.
Each day brings
Far far less worth
Than we could gain,
Or should be gaining.

Each gift from God,
Each day, is as the
Trojan gift,
A gift longed for and
Desired with all our
Energy,
That once accepted brings
More pain, more delusion,
More disharmony than
We ever could have
Imagined.

It was a gift from the
God of our Selves,
So well accepted
That now we have become
Engrossed in that gift.

We have lost the contact of the
Worlds outside this deistic gift
Of life, the gift of each
Day we experience, the gift of
Each day of pain and struggle
And Loss.

This gift could be good.
It is what we do with the gift of
Life that makes it good or bad.
We must realize and experience the
Goodness of this gift before we
Can be relieved of this trojan
Gift of Life.

I walk a dusty street alone,
Desolate, destitute,
Alone. I walk in company
Of thoughts. I walk in company
Of thieves, of prophets;
I walk in company
Of gods.

I walk in company of thoughts.

My thoughts.

I walk a dusty street, alone.

I kick the dust as I walk,
Amusing myself with images
Of dust playthings and
Dust monsters,
Formed in tiny clouds of
Dust which cloud the mind.

I walk in dust, heedless
Of my company.

The dust kicks back,
Playing with my own
Created images.
The capers of this dust
Amuse, entice,
And intimidate me,
Holding the thought.

Following other footprints
Left behind in
This foreboding dust,
Tracing other paths,
Of other things lost,
I walk and follow and move and
Think alone on this dusty road.

I walk and pass a streetlight,
A light, lighting my way.
But the light is diffused by
Dust; diffused, not focussed,
Confused, not illuminating.

That confused light confuses me.
The dust confusing that light,
Diffuses my thought,
Still holds my thought as I walk.

Without that meager glint of
Confused Light, I could not find
My way. I could not find any way –
Could not follow footprints,
Could not leave them behind.
Without diffused light, I would be
Lost: I could not be.

Whose footprints do I follow?
My feet fall perfectly
Into the place of each print ahead,
My foot fits perfectly into
Each print ahead.

I follow no one but myself,
Though I follow footprints,
They were not made by feet.
Those prints were made of dust,
Dust diffusing light,
Dust confusing thought.

Those prints were made of dust,
By dust and from dust.
It was confused thoughts which
Laid them there, where
My foot will fall with every step.
The path I follow has been created by me.
It was laid down by me.

The dusty street I walk is
My own dusty street, my own dust,
My own street.

I pass and look down other side streets,
I look and consider
Possibilities, but my feet fall
Perfectly into each place laid before me.
I cannot place my foot outside these
Dust prints, which took me
On their own streets.

I may consider and be curious as I wish,
But my wish creates more
Dusty side streets for other
Wondering walkers to peruse.

My wish creates more creations
In this dust and of this dust,
For my wish is for this dust.

And so I walk.
I walk this dusty street alone,
In company of thieves, of
Prophets;
I walk in company of
Gods.

I walk alone,
Heedless the company that I am.

This dusty street, must teach me and
From it I must learn
How not to make this dust the object of
My thought.

The less I think of this dust
The shorter my dusty street becomes.

I approach the end of this dusty street,
Where I may no longer follow footprints.
I may no longer follow footprints, but
Then I drift along a dusty street,
Drift along at the speed of thought,
Until no more dust can hold my mind.

When no more dust holds my mind,
I drift alone, I drift with my Selves.

I am my Selves, apart from this
Dusty street.