We learn with slow time how to order things
how sequence the events that make us story.
the hours that were gloom, seconds of joy,
sweet dark espresso sips of bliss or glory
The jigsaw of our lives, kaleidoscope,
rummage the shapes then shift around the pieces.
We never get to own the truths we are
we only have them on extended leases
And know them in a moment's flash of truth
that tells us who we are, were, might yet be
then lost again, in fogs that sometimes clear
to insight, self-scorn, sudden empathy
for all our other selves, that saw these things
and knew them clearly for a moment's space
and looked into dark mirrors and then saw
clear our own older or our younger face
then kind forgetting will take much away
and only leave the sense of something known
over again. A feather touch on lips
kisses, is gone, on Chaos winds is blown.
leaves just the shadow of itself behind
a shadow bright with dust before our eyes.
We know we've known ourself a hundred times
then lost it, broken it to easy lies
and never know if each time was the same
or shifting fragments. We may not cohere
as self or soul. I'd rather have untruth
if absolutes are to be bought too dear
I choose illusion, choose desire, and pain,
choose self, and love, and sympathy and lust
I'd rather be decaying yearning flesh
than mind carved into truth by its own dust.