My present contribution lurks,
all knowing, sat beneath myself.
My-self thought known, itself converts
to fleeting truth by stealth.
That truth appearing, itself a thing
dictated by its finite time.
Ripples caused by fragile wing,
rising, seeking to recline.
Defying life, I strive to fly,
to higher realms, I’m drawn.
Myself beneath it seeks to die,
and memory’s fear, translates to scorn.
But through time’s revelations;
fragmentations of the truth;
the body’s inclinations;
the brief hallucinations;
appears myself a truce.
The grace to know that being free,
depends not on escaping.
Freedom seen occasionally
endures because it’s saving.
Saving precious memories
my present self the killer.
Bodies are like falling leaves,
Life’s elixir, poor caterpillar.