~Sparse Frivolity

Notes to oneself, to the other, are endless with (k)nots.
Hum of the drum, beats us all down, even now.
And then, comes Rumi's white miracle of round,
when just like a beautiful spring day, new is found.

There's one sure promise here in so many miles
paved with broken hearts, love's recompense.
Long riders learn how to bite their tongues
for risk of missing opportunity to exit (here)with.

Longer and farther one treads, rot settles in.
Close to the start, is where to find surest bow.
There, knarly pain controls mind spasm totality
just as before - God created Universe - this time.

We're simple and sparse in any grand comparison.
Tragic misfortunates, suffering the mystery unseen.
Our stories are all, little more than Potter's Daubie,
sure fire failures forsooth as profit rushes to defend.

Truth is not narrative, while narrative claims what is.
We claim narratives our own, and then stop asking.
Our erudite moral thinkers persuade how valuable
the story told must be, identity's fashionable package.

Nice and tidy they say, providing continuity with past,
a frivolity which defines our spirituality, our essence.
I bite my tongue, and choose to close in on the start.
It hurts most when I forget how really meaningless...

But at times like this, burning intent at my ready,
the challenge to untell is at once all I perceive.
So far as that maintains the inquiry, will I return.
Straight lines and circles, my digital age narration.

2/28/08, rjduberg