the shattered mirror of admittance

I am willing to crawl

through the journey of my life

more easily

when the stones of contact

beneath my calloused hands and knees

meet my expectations

of what is a real experience of life.

It is there that I have

justifiable passion and despair.

It is there that I age and obtain wisdom.

It is there,

where I am relative to others.

This is how I have usage

of contentious states of my being.

I am jealous and I have a pride

to further my own causes.

This is how I seek the leverage

of likes and dislikes as self-identity.

This is how I can contest

the meaning of life by accomplishments.

This is how I am entitled to

desires and satisfactions

that notch each day.

I weave a safety net

of conversations as connections.

I live the myopic enterprise

of order and completion.

I listen to inner voices

of moral certitude and have judgments.

My notion of compromise is to share

my hidden agenda,

to find the comfort

of superficial like in kind,

to satiate the senses

and to posture positions of strength.

I feign a humility

of human’s responsibility,

presuming an ultimate control.

I thrive on rituals

of unconscious consequences

on to the planet.

I am an “out of sight, out of mind”

giant among men.

I have appetites of perception

based on manipulation and deceit

and where I hurt,

I accept permission

for all the reactions that I have.

I am an activated smart mouth

about everything I perceive.

I am a living extension

of all the failures

of religions towards a god.

I accept personal success in my life

as my ultimate illusion,

until there is no one left

in my private bleacher applauding me.

And then, after all of this, I knew.

I knew all along

how shallow all this was.

I really felt somewhat hollow,

even while all this was happening to me.

Many times I had the ‘a ha’,

but couldn't keep it alive within me.

I believed I’d be dead and gone

before the planet was put down.

I had this deep thirst

but couldn’t really find the quench around.

I busied myself

and embellished with memories

to fill the void.

I felt compelled into a meaningful life,

as a burden of identity.

I knew that I falsified my true emotions,

as others often do.

I traded off on the big picture

with intimacies of self-obsession.

I instinctively understood the use of topic

as adequate diversion.

I mastered the use of frame

as my hidden accomplice of false deeds.

Sure, I willingly crawl through this

This journey as my life,

more easily now,

as the stones of contact beneath me

now greet me where by

my expectations only meet me.

Real experience has its own life

with or without me.

Passion seeks no justification

and despair has no partners in crime.

Age happens as the body responds

and some type of wisdom

happens to every mind.

I am only home by surrender.

I am only whole

beyond and through it all.

What I, upon finding it in myself,

more lucidly long for, yearn for,

and are drawn to,

is the undifferentiated bliss

beyond the be.

Where we only bask as the truth

that is ever present ,

beyond the distraction, named the search.

Where choice is not the prison of options.

And the restraining handcuffs of selection

are not a constant sentencing

of attention to the prize . . .

Such is the sight

beyond the shattered mirror

of admittance . . .