Poem of self

Listen to the song of right and wrong,

That of ideas held so long.

Concrete is the fluid past,

An image of perfection,

Sure to last.

Yet perfection gets violated,

Concrete is still flowing,

Slower than the river I drink,

Slower yet than the river I breathe.

We sprang from a flowing becoming,

Not a still image wanting to grow.

Stillness yes! From where we sprang!

But no image, containing it, wanting to grow.

One clings to silence,

And keeps the movement,

That's the one we all know.

Not contained in a droplet,

Any of which, none can know.

To hold it all is here and now,

Each for each,

Lost in how.

Never be lost in now,

The eye of God is-

This form, this lense, this me,

                       We all see how.