(Image: “Dark Sea”, Michael Manley.)
We are all little enigmas,
tied up ever so neatly
in little boxes
with the strings of our
So much of our light is
strangled by these cords
we whimper away in the shadowy corners
and hide from each other,
in the musty crawlspaces of our minds,
and there we remain, trapped
prisoners of ourselves.
As we sop up the sweat of our fears,
their rancid stench lingers
in the fetid air
We are imperious lords of
that fester in the absence of light.
We hear the feverish tumblings of
others, who lust
to crack their dark codes.
These are those
half-forgotten shadows filigreed with
that insinuate themselves in the cracks of our brains
and cause our long-entrenched sanity
And because we hunger
to keep these soul eaters at bay
we secret them away
to the cob-webbed dungeons
of our unexplored lands,
where we banish all
that which is not ready for the light.
A single metric inch of space and time
contains endless layers of mystery.
Sentient icebergs we are
drifting through the
little oases of rationality.
So many layers to our secrets!
We find ourselves swimming in the murkiness
the sunlit surface dancing miles above our heads
tantalizing us with their shadows.
So much is hidden away in ourselves,
and so much is hidden even from ourselves.
We gasp for air
suffocating in the aqueous hell
of the murderous depths
no end to the mystery of our being
nothing as it seems
nothing is as it is.
Alien creatures we become
even unknown to ourselves
adrift on arctic landscapes
our voices crying out to be heard
And to be understood
by a single soul.
But, as we utter our words,
they are suspended in the chill void.
Words frozen in bubbles of time
we try to melt them
with an intimation of fire
brazenly stolen away from
the primordial sunrise.
We would do virtually anything
to escape from the
swirling riddles that infect the
waters of our minds,
what we need most to do, which is
surrender to the mystery.
Let the mystery swallow us whole
let the mystery feast on our fears and our ignorance
out their bones onto the bleached shore
need for certainty
and our grasping onto a sameness
that is a poor
substitute for joy.