Who We Are Not

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 understood.

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 self-ordained 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.

Why….

Are we 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 imagination
Asks we only be who we are,
Naked of who we are not,
Like the rare lion afraid to spring,
Fearful of the wildness and freedom within.

Time is on our side.