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Poem

This is not a place
Not a place
where trees grow
where water runs
freely
This is a place
of the quiet
solitude
A place of
fullness
emptiness

Yet to the people of old
The forest dwellers
The water dwellers
The nomadics
This is there home
Its your home too

In the desert
Deep in the desert
theres a cave
where nothing 
holds all
10,00 paths
lead to somewhere
one path
to nowhere
leads here

This cave
Is not etched
on any map
Hidden from site
Located
on a landscape
A heated
arid landscape
A desert being
That burns senses
evaporates
Dims senses
chars self

The cave
Blood red rock
patterned with
handprints white
Ashen pigment 
marks the
dead, alive
the unborn

Here
All that ever
happened is
happening
and all that’s
to happen
happened


Here
If one could
hear
10,000 call
shattering
the solitude
into  100,000
realites

Here
theres a pool
untouched
by 
heat and wind
by element
A perfect reflection
If one could see
This reflection holds
10,000
in a hypnotic state
of self belief
There tears roll
Eroding rock
sustaining shape

But
It’s a cave
Just a cave
Alive with the
heat of being
and non being
An imposition
In the solidity
of rock
An empty space
containing all
Made of nothing
A place few go
Few find

This is the
mirage of dream

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