Window Pane

(I don't want you folks thinkin I'm no longer
word crazy and lyrically strange)






Window Pane

As I,
The window allows light
Inside the seer.

Thy sight is framed
By the boundaries of pain.

Edges of choice,
Choosing the boxy shape of a human name.

We, alone in our frames,
Are kin to windows of double panes.

Existence proceeds from outside,
Through the surface of our tension
(the outer pain),
Through the insulated, static air betwixt
(the place of I),
Through the border of our most basic beliefs
(the inner pain),
Finally crossing into the furnished room
Of subconscious.



Pardonably paraphrased perhaps predictably:

The Universal other touches
The human ego’s frontier
(there formed and warmed).

Then allowed into the
‘space’ we ‘demark’ as our ‘mind’.

The You of you is but the filter
Between inner and outer pain,
Inner and outer definitions of Self,
A layer that is you,
Between the strangeness Without,
And the Strangeness within.

Pain the great limiter,
Pain the red signPost,
Pain the Teacher.

Though the truth of Being
May be the very Light
That passes through us
From Chaos dances
Into cells of Order.

We motionful things,
We animated objects of walking dreams,
Are used to defining what is us
And not us,
By the limitations of our skin.

Mind,
Body,
And the often debated third part.

We are experiencing machines,
Blessed with pain and so panes,
Which define personal existence.





Are we going or gone?

Being machines with ‘souls’,
Are we the final fruit
Of concordant chaos or
The initial step towards something more?

It can seem fruitless and foolish
To conjure ourselves as anything more
Than actors writing our own lines
In a directorless theatre.

That is the burden of the
Existential puzzle,
As Zero is the question begging,
“What is outside,
What is inside,
‘0’
This funny circle of meaning?”

A point of origin is the original point.
It asks, “Where to next?”
It begs to be given another point
Somewhere in the distance,
And so know itself a line,
A direction,
A record,
A life,
A length,
An experience,
A revelation,
Of distance,
Of Breath
Of Time
Of birth to death
Of love racing with pain.

It begs this as does our own soul,
To be pointed a way
To more of itself,
To become less alone,
Less singular.

If your You will allow
Such strange descriptions,
Perhaps the next direction for us
Is to be given a third point,
Bequeathing us a nice triangular plane
For our hearts.

And even further flung,
Adding yet more points of existence,
Where we may finally define a space,
A three dimensional square, or circle,
A box, container or sphere,
Not dissimilar from that original ‘0’
Yet older, larger, more colorful,
Baleful,
Binding rocket scientists and Beowulfs,
And oceans and land and fire and air.

Perhaps it is a fair and unjust Earth,
And we will pursue the wonder,
The puzzling Question,
“What is inside, what is outside?”



Perhaps these words are confusion and Night.
But is not everything in Sight?

And are not we over talented still
At pushing such trivialities aside with Will,
Filtering the chaotic light away,
Before shining in the room we call Day.