Mind’s Wilderness

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,
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,
While risking possibilities
Of head-on-encounters with peril.

Like the mind’s wilderness of discovery,
Does not the journey of reason
Ask only we be who we are,
Naked of who we are not?