Between here and there, clear vision.
Nothing to shut out,
not a thing to blur
or to halt our seeing forever and with clarity.
We do not always see what there is.
Put glasses on, take them off, shut eyes, open, listen.
See, hear, feel, sense.
The inner voices obscure,
the day is blunted or celebrated,
and we do not hear.
The ears ring clearly,
music plays from the memory,
stirring voices into hums which ring the aura
which reflects the light reflecting sounds.
Like Plato’s caves, we live chained,
or the shadows of shadows.
We want, we don’t want,
what there is, what there should be,
cast into the shapes of things,
The objects of desire and moral suasion
moves our honesty,
recasting streams of being and solidifying factuality.
I fought to see,
to push away the curtains and veils of visions;
I fought to hear, to feel not just my feelings resonating,
but what there is.
I found myself floating
upon the waves of a thousand years’
thousand years of why’s and because’s
blunting the sharpness of outline and of detail.
Entering Heraclitus’ river,
I found it always different,
but always different in the same direction;
upstream and downstream.
It never lay still, but neither did I.
seeking to sleep so my dreams
might tell me what was,
and lulled myself into the calms
from which I could look out
and tell that all was as it was, was as it is…