after losing ego and id

i am the tragic artist, the noble saint.

i feel a bit of both in me.

nobody talks about the lukewarm,

the in between dreamers,

the ones who chose neither yes nor no.

did they discover more about the divine

than those who seemingly tore themselves away?

or did they lie awaiting the end?

were they projected from the cosmic mouth?

did the creator spit them out for want of ice or steam?

am i more than just a weed awaiting the harvest,

the goat lost among the flock,

or am i on a journey to limitless wisdom?

timelessly praying for a heavenly treasure,

i await the inevitable; growing beneath the son.

letting the light bend me across the dome of the sky

with the wobbly rotation of the planet.

like the corn we are harvested

every hundred years,

before the frosty death of eternal winter.

we experience the plucking away,

picked by divine fingers from our earthly flower bed,

our death bed, our market fresh sale bin.

besides an ant farm

we are an organic extension,

a cosmic arm of eternal life.

i am a spinning strip of the milky way.

and you are seeing me from the dark of saltless earth.