I have touched only a small part of me,
nothing of myself,
though I have lived these many years
nothing have I learned
that reflects good unto me.
But I have a secret,
informational at best,
outrageous maybe in the audacity of the seeker.
But I know of a place.
A place, from beginning to end with distant hills and friendless valleys
where my name
has been written in the dust,
no wind to disturb the fragile writing.
It is there that I travel now.
I seek Quintessence,
not tangible like gold;
no, the place I seek is concerned with Innerself.
It is a far away, treacherous journey,
I travel as a babe in the womb.
My steps falter,
my limbs are weak; they are immersed in old thinking
which I must purge.
Not an easy task
this flushing out of the old,
for I am not sure
of its replacement.
I only know I must continue this journey.
To stop putting one foot in front of the other,
I would sooner die than give up the search.
How do I know of this place, this Quintessence?
What foolhardiness causes me to seek what I might not be able to find?
What do I expect out of all this,
if and when I arrive at this place, this Quintessence?
Why give up everything,
society and its ills,
the warmth of a woman's arms,
the smell of a blood-red rose?
questions, questions, questions,
trying to make me see where I err.
Foolishly trying to blind my vision,
turn my head,
confuse my thoughts.
I have read the omens,
I have felt the burn of the soul,
I have seen my name
each letter of a different hue,
making it unique
breathtaking in its flawlessness.
in name only,
This is what I have set out to find.
A oneness with my quintessence.
Though the journey may be fraught with peril
I tarry not,
I press ahead into the labyrinth of my Id,
to bend down before my name and breathe myself in.
These are the words of one possessed,
take care to understand them,
know for a certainty
shallowness has no place on this journey.
I am stone-hard
where it counts,
my passion to reach my goal unbending,
my desire concentrated,
Still, in the distance
the woeful sound of a mighty timber wolf
howls his mournful dirge,
a warning perhaps.
I hold my head high
breathe in the thin mountain air
and set out toward its end.
©July 8, 2010 / Jerry Pat Bolton
~ If they give you ruled paper, write sideways. ~
[This message has been edited by JerryPat2 (07-19-2017 09:34 PM).]