The Search for Self

Strange--the journey set upon,
for I have never traveled
seeking just to close in finally
on home.  I would see it only
as an inference laid bare
as I would strip away each incident
that stained it, cover it with
physicality, expose it to
the mothering of earth and sky
and finally betray it with a
death or life, which to be valid
must include each other.

And that is just beginning.
Intangibles are stubborn beasts, 
and where was I?  I could no longer
wrap myself in second-hand opinions,
assumed cachet, or
the wisdom of my peers. Time
and its attendant rite
already hastened those along.

But consciousness is in control.
Its mentor is the sun,
I, its pale moon with no light
of its own, its surface shallow,
with serenity I do not feel.
One alone with quiet thought
finds time's reward draws closer still.
Who am I?

An imposter, I may well conclude
and in a breath, a thief,
albeit lavish in beneficence,
who stole another's air.
            ~