EVERY WORD IS THE SEED
Every word is the seed
of a language all its own
that goes on expressing itself forever like a vine
that keeps to itself like a musical theme
with different flowers.
The new moon splits the darkness
and there are uneasy ghosts among the waterlilies
that star the mind with openings
that bloom like gates
it’s easier than water to walk through.
For years I thought I was lonely,
wingless among flying things,
but now I know the intimate liberty
that burns in the eyes of my solitude
is a muse of fire that never goes out
even in the mouths of the dragons
that sleep in my watersheds.
The protean potential of one is greater than two
because there’s no one there to define you
like a straitjacket, a cocoon, a fortune-cookie
that keeps churning out moths and dragonflies
while everyone expects monarchs.
I know no more about what I will become next
than I do about what colour a chameleon will turn
when you put it in front of a mirror.
But I trust my transformations
like a plough in fertile starfields
and honour the skins I’ve sluffed along the way
donating my myths in luminous braille,
the constellations and the leaves I’ve shed
as I moved on like autumn,
to the local library.
You can look at a star from earth
or you can see it from the inside
before the arising of signs
hides the dream of things to come in the light,
and you can say I am this
and here I will build my celestial city
but all cornerstones of self are bad dice
and however eloquent your shrine is
words are not a voice
and Be yourself when there’s nothing to be
is a slaver’s advice to the free.