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The Womb
Bouncing off the walls

From the womb, that sacred, secure, worm hiding place,
life’s human incubator, from which it will reach out to seek sight,
from the darkness of memories’ enormous, lost space
coming together from that place where the universes light
- cosmic consciousness – is, through life’s prisms, refracted
from its oneness into a coat of many colours reflected 
into many dimensions, spread out as a person,
the personality we see in the mirror of reflection 
-- that living entity, some parent’s son -
or in the mirrors, in the many faces that come before us,
is the life that comes to shed its light, it’s dark,
it’s gray and all else that exists in its every day,
that at times, is light, is bright or very stark.

From this life I see ?, but only see a spiral 
- like that of a hypnotist’s wheel
or that form from the twilight zone -
going round and round until nothing.
Drawing one into, what never moves, it’s centre,
it’s illusion, it’s reality, a reality without height,
without any width , without any depth.
Its reality is to go around and around and around
like an album of various performers, on a turn table.
The essence, it’s life, the needle that flows across the surface,
grooved on its energy, now spent, as it, at end goes
nowhere, no further as it skips, jumps back a bit,
goes forth for a bit in static noise, in shades of gray,
on black vinyl to the very end and that my friend
is all that is left of my light of lights and that of my life.

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