I am like a student of aloneness.
I rifle through pages of verse,
which speak of it.
I pore over dusty tomes of philosophy
In the dim lamp light,
My eyes dry and squinty,
I run over each line with my finger as if I'm searching
for deep treasure,
as if among these poets, philosophers,
mystics or fakes -
I might find a word,
a sentence even,
that will satisfy
The school may be elusive,
bound up in dark cloud,
but not so harsh anymore.
I even try and come as close as I can.
I sit on my cushion cross legged
for that utterly blinding moment
( so beautiful )
when my aloneness transforms itself
into my closest
I'm lucky when this happens,
because it doesn't always.
But it drives me back to my seat again,
even kicking and screaming,
and sometimes terrified,
back to my alone school
because I so crave that moment.
Maybe that's a bad thing. Who can say?
But truthfully -
I crave it more than I have ever,