Cool slips of reddened leaves

fly—an eagle—past


Here you become the nothing

sky is,

whispering past hearing

into the silence,

capturing pieces of memory

hope, dream;

scattered ashes


as blood, bone,

scheme, memory, whisper.

I am that I am not

to be I am.


Part of becoming who we are, is realizing that which we are not–but that which we have been attempting to be. We cannot say “no” to who we are not, however, until we have a place to land in the Authentic Self.  But discerning the difference is an inside job where we sort out the distinctions in the dark by braille. Yet, either this or something as profound as a near death these are the pathways past the blindness of identity, mask and costume and into essential beingness. 

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

2014-09-01 19.23.59

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