Seeker

image borrowed from bing

Seeker

Time is an illusion,
as is death, just measurement
for clouded minds, for they
actually fold back on themselves,
constantly in motion, perpetually
an undulating, twisting, squirming
cosmic helix,

so for the drowning man, and the hanged,
wounded, torn-to-pieces, eaten man,
remember that when you are in
possession of the proper galaxy charts,
you can travel like thought rocketing
through their magnificent folds, those
illusory twins death and time, for they
are nothing and you are everything,
co-creators of the universe, companions
to the divers gods, threading star systems
like a stellar spider, naked as the silver
surfer, roaring through the rings of Saturn,
stardust clinging to your winged feet, until
you want to touch down as some planet’s
sentience attracts you, some maiden,
some flower, some poem lures you,
attracts you like a firewalker to the magma,
as the astral energies beckon, and your data
aligns with this latest timeline, this new
adventure.

It has always been thus, and will continue
to be, so blow the ice out of your lungs,
shake off the sea, take your first virgin
breath in this new world, fill your husk
with life, open your eyes and scream
your first hello.

Glenn Buttkus

January 2012

Listed as #23 over on Magpie Tales 100

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?