Alter-Self Dichotomy

To carry one's images,
one's melodies as but symbols in stone,
is to know only the grating sound of their existence
as their platelets of age move about to get our attention,
our personal history trying desperately to be known.

Yet we divert our course,
so often bushwhacking our way,
even when nature's wisdom
stands ready to raise the sun,
arc the moon,
lift the tides,
give direction for one's innate destiny.

Oh how loud our alter-self screams,
even as we bury our unresolved purpose
in pillows of darkness

beneath pulled-tight blankets of fear.

We gaze blindly at our maps,
Time's patient gift of instinct,
affording navigation of mind,
even as we wander blindly,
or imitate other explorers
busy realizing who they are.

How easily we don their costume,
only to find a blank stage where audiences

of you,
you, and you,

remain mute without applause.
 
Such is the waste of idle map pins
pressed upon one's creative grid,
often allowing a matrix of choice to remain in limbo,
pursuing instead back roads,
afraid of throughways—
that straight path from a to z,
where inner trust and intuitive knowledge
vie to become wisdom,
even as unknown perils will inevitably rise up.

The journey of creative living
asks we only be who we are,
naked of who we are not,
knowing that even a lion afraid to spring,
fearful of the wildness within,

senses the truth of its innate act,

always aware veracity is a cosmic principal,

perpetually on the side of honesty.