Who?

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
Only to 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
Allowing matrix of choice to remain in limbo
Willing to pursue side roads
Afraid of throughways
That straight path
From a to z
Where inner trust
Intuitive knowledge
Vies to become wisdom
Even as it willingly faces peril

The journey of actualization…

Asks we only be who we are
Naked of who we are not

Knowing deniability is akin
To a lion afraid to spring
Fearful of the wildness within