I meet myself in a Labyrinth

Posted on Posted in Addiction

Enter the labyrinth.
The crunch of stones
beneath my feet.
The chime of wind
in the trees.

A canvas,
calling me away
from my own neurotic tale.
Stories upon stories
turning their pages
through the stillness
of the morning.

I turn,
only to meet myself
again. A young man
on a padded matt,
tying knots in himself,
anxious to become
rather than to be.

If only
he had met Rumi back then__
“Out beyond ideas of
wrondoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I‘ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”

I turn, again,
only to meet myself.
The crunch of stones
the chime of the wind.
No closer to the centre,
no further from
the start.

I remember
the boy on the river bank,
waving his cries towards the boat __
“You’re leaving me behind”.
But shaking his head,
his father with one hand on the throttle __
“You should have come when you had the chance.”

In the centre, briefly
a moon faced man,
stubbled with stories,
one I can hardly recall,
but it ended with a hunting horn saying “yes”.
“Yes” to this moment, “yes” to my stories,
“yes” to me boarding that boat.

Steps in the labyrinth,
I turn, again.
The crunch of stones
the chime of the wind.
No further from the centre,
no closer to
the start.

I recall the company
of a butcher bird
pecking at the loneliness
in my palm.
It was with that hand
that I handed a quote
to an addict.

She gifted it back to me
on a canvas__
“And the day came when
the risk to remain tight in a bud
was more painful
than the risk it took
to blossom”.

Steps in the labyrinth,
the crunch of stones
beneath my feet,
the chime of the wind
in the trees.
I meet myself, again,
on a canvas.

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