Enlightenment

I walk alone in these paths of darkness 

abundant in small rocks and broken glass,

that lead to no place and every place

beyond the hemispheres and imaginary lines.

And there I shall meet no destiny 

nor glorious reception in praise of my name.

I walk these paths on my tired legs

every passing day more willing to collapse.

Light did once make it all colorful — alive—

but now herself exhausted, she rips

the very fabric of beauty with both her hands.

A candle has been lit; a flame now exists.

Sometimes I look out of my dirty window,

out of my somber room, out to the brilliant outside 

and wonder, like often children do:

Is any part of this living canvas telling the truth?