There, right there, over there,
can you see it?
There is the bench.
the solitary bench,
made of wood
and perfect illusion.
I’ve looked at it, stared at it, wished it nearer.
I’ve reached for it,
touched it, barely.
Hush now, this is not your time to speak, to pick one.
Like hungry lions we circle it, the looming mirage,
alone in the desert.
Still hungering, I long and yearn,
always will, shall,
you tell me.
Busy waiting, I’m starting to let go,
I’ve never understood, never been understood
And why would I?
Even if I were to get there, I wouldn’t want you there.
So while constantly looking into the distance, looking for the other, the other in me, the others
I lose myself, lose the others in myself, and re-invent myself.
While I am leaving, gone, long-lost,
I have returned home, to the mother, my mother, my being.
I have glanced at the mosaic that is so
And now I see you smile:
“It’s an illusion, child.”
Well, crooked smile,
hand me hammer and nail.
At least, let me imagine
Every day all day wherever I am
to sit on that bench in between
wherever my soul can
Where I can repose
only for a little.