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On this side of the oval window,

Where I'm struck repeatingly With sound and fragrance,

I anticipate thumps and zaps of objects caressing my skin.

With faith in the names and forms I structure a poem.

 

The busy scenes outside my window will surely be used to set me free.

Gathering messages and twisting them up, trying to escape my anticipation.

Without the use of the objects I seem to control I can go nowhere, I can't do anything.

 

There's other windows, subtle and tricky, strange hints leading me on, keeping me chained.

There's John walking down the drive, to get his mail I believe.

But perhaps he runs from me, giving testimony to all, my eclectic position.

 

All that I accomplish is null, I can bring nothing home, all remains beyond this me I cannot see.

Comes and goes and changes me not, these words themselves escape, beyond the windows, forever separate.

From where do they come? Not from me, I haven't the power to create, merely pop-ups assuming my fate.

Flowing through and fleeting past, but through whom?

 

I'm lost in movement, forever still. Is this chatter myself? Me over there consulting the me over here, I can't distinguish here and there and consultation avails me nothing.

Perhaps opinion is the only obstacle, Believing I can run too or from or move at all is a false notion.

Only objects move and I seem to go with, but they need me more than I need them.

 

What a relief. Well this could be fun. Free to play with my objectivity, how beautiful it is to be!

This power that I am! Giving rise to all, this subject that I'd worshiped as an object is indeed myself.

No fear now, for when the movement stops I'll remain forever still.

Fear was always an outsider but now I understand, though I felt lost and afraid I have always been that joy i sought!

I must investigate further my blessed state, for all states are subject to change.