Pantheon

What eyes have my eyes met in limpid passing, finding the flickering font of foreign fact and fiction in the soul of another, seeking from the outside what I lost within, yet gleaning no more than my image on the iris of the other I, the worldly wanderer in wilderness that I may never hope to see, trapped also in the prison of the mind in monolog, in endless back-and-forth between its parts, the hell of the soul in dialog, repeating one mantra til the end of time?

Alone is the self, and selfish are the lone.

No joy can I withstand before I fall, and come up with a new excuse to suffer, to choose the path of nature back to dust and clay, forsaking God and losing perfect grace, meeting the morning star in mankind, rendered by the light of day in vivid image, the mirage that I have made my resting place. Why leave delusion when one chances on it? If the heart want truth, and truly wants, what shows the story of a splendid lie, a beginning and end spun out by chattering hands that play the muse as though it were a toy, when it is cherished as the Way?

Be the tree, the drinker of water, the eater of earth, the bender of air, the taker of fire.

Beauty and the Beast, Madonna and the Philistine, Mother and the Brute, Woman and the Man.