Wednesday, February 11, 2009

I Am That I Am


And am I not like smoke?

Turning ever toward the door
in steaming swells I soar

and twist from flimsy sticks
stacked on ash like the past

present and forgotten, soon
to be disposed of because

I have already escaped
this hateful fate, but

from above I smell my burial
waft and wane, aswim in lingering love

for the ground I now surround.

And too the flame?

As flashes lashed to name and form

Atman is already born



ever heeding:
what it is that keeps us warm.


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