A Prelude to "Conversation With the Madhi"

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For the Wednesday Challenge at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

How shall I know when all is right;

where goodness gathers by the way;

where darkening souls imbibe new light;

when new desires define new days?

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I am no stranger to strange places, ma’am.

I’ve been a-seeking since this life began

to find a place where I could play my hand.

I come here not bereft of gifts or grace,

for I can turn my hand to anything

that can be dreamt of.

If a thing be dreamable

I have held it somewhere in my mind.

Somewhere soaring in my vagrant time.

But I forget myself again

and speak of lingering dreams in vain.

I will ask you…

I will ask you…

ah, but I forget again…

Such an inconstant star that leads my tracks!

How’s that for an epitaph?

I’m thinking tombstones more and more these days.

I’ve chiseled out a few across the years,

but always someone else to wear the suit.

You’d never know from looking out

upon this wretched ground

how rich it is in corpses.

Why, I’m afraid to break the surface

scratching a latrine

for fear of being dragged

into some wretched thing’s Hades

before my righteous time.

Ah… “ …’Ere my righteous time…”

How’s that for an epitaph?

Someone else, of course.

How many lives I’ve led,

how many different paths I’ve taken now,

out and away from the ancient matrix,

new treads rutting down the score

where others’ fleeing footsteps fell before.

Might I retrace my steps to find

proof that a life was onetime left behind?

And where then would that journey carry me?

And what sense would it make to ply

a path of least resistance in reverse?

Oh, ye of certain provenance

ought to rejoice the fact.

There is at least one terminus

to anchor your track.

You cannot fault the world-forsaken man—

who knows not whence he came—

bewailing the night sky.

Those who ask ‘What’s in a name?’

most often-time own one.

There’s something more in place for them

than two eyes and a grimace

peering through the mirror’s vacant visage.

Yes, someone put a word to me, back when.

I started out as somebody, but don’t know how I’ll end.

I’ve since worn a score of names,

and by any remain the same.

Without a doubt, no ordinary Joe;

no Tom nor Dick nor Harry that I know.

There should be words for everyone.

including those of us that run,

callow orphans of the sun,

random atoms,

it’s all one…