What I brought was passion,
more than could be contained or controlled.
Honest beyond the good intentions of 'honesty'
Honest to the point of Truth
which not even the self
especially the Self
can ever bear for long.
And what I left was nothing
Less than can be easily maintained or directed.
Empty beyond the desire for simplicity.
Empty to the point of unbeing.
which not even the self
especially the Self
can ever bear for long
A fistfull of sand
that bled through the fingers the harder it was squeezed.
But this is the cycle, the turning wheel.
What was brought?
What was left?
What was?
It does not matter.
There is
Night enough to hold pounding hearts and the rhythms of passion
Night enough to drench
And the scrapings of hope
like claws at the door
Are ignored
as one might ignore a cur
or the whines of a feral cat
There is only Life here.
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