morning is a skull pounding clamor, a hand bending search;
questions replace night with insidious fluidity.
it is black ink meeting white page like knuckle to flesh
and from between the tips of two pinched fingers there is an explosion,
shards in every shade of gray falling like pieces of a shattered mirror.
the echo of reflection becomes the pulsating beat of desperation,
as every crevice of my sight is cluttered by the dismembered Perception,
who offers herself up in any tone I wish.
there is somewhere, I am certain, beneath all this desperation and noise,
where Reality lounges across a velvet sofa whilst eluding hungry minds such as mine.
there is some journey, I am sure, that will end in his revelation.
there is somewhere, I am certain, beneath the thought-defying flesh and the sense-defying thought
where the final and integral dimension of Self waits.
there is here, where the moment has constrained me.
there is a calendar that only turns once every thirty days,
a clock that will not skip over any minute’s passing in pursuit of a sooner hour.
there is here, a cage of tedious and unnecessary formality, a prison of breakfast and bedrooms.
I am the white rabbit, and break the cell walls with triumphant abandon,
as thought collapses and erupts with speed.
there are the limbs that grow weary from incessant aspiration,
and the skin that bears shadows and lulls from uninterrupted consciousness.
but it is only bone and blood, and the mind chugs on
to find the highest reality, the one it cannot feel.
Contributor: Marina Kovacs-McCaney
Copyright © 2013 Marina Kovacs-McCaney. All Rights Reserved.