A Self
A self
a place to be
each moment
of every step
born from labor and separation
banished when first we leave our father's loins
expelled from our mother's wombs we dwell alone
experience only ours
each moment a star
glistening in the existential universe
where we dwell like gods creating our existence
weaving the space time cloth
which clothes the unfathomable nothingness
from whence we come and go
eternity after eternity
in a celebratory procession
of our selves to perfection
© Copyright 2002 Don Anderson (UN: ordinarymystic at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Don Anderson has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
One of the great lessons of my disability has been that I am not my body, and if I'm not my body I am surely not my mind, my thoughts or my emotions. Nor am I my possessions, reputation or my career. These things are me but I am not them. What am I?