My days are long and unyielding.
Without breaks, so cut me one.
Out of the fabric of time, which I gracefully draped around my neck in a noose like fashion.
In study, I hung myself from the tree of life.
But in practice, death keeps me waiting at its door.
I placed myself at the roots of the tree, and asked its arthritic knots how it grows.
A mirrored image of itself above, below the dirt.
Fingers splayed in the Earth I whispered…
a fervent question-
A raging sea within.
Knocking on the door of truth.
But only I answer, as if I too, am a repeated image,
And the only truth found is in reflection.