Nothing Moves But Mind

Outside and elsewhere existence is a leaf on a deep blue river; a long night has set it free to bob and tumble as an upturned mirror caught in the gray rays of an obscure sun. I listen to the heartbeat of a giant turtle; the soundless pulse of a mind roaming away from itself. At such times, a body of flesh becomes a body of work, an opus of all that can be held between a left and right handedness. Nothing has a name here, all anchors are cut, the black cat of thought leaves no pawprint upon the inner eye. Somewhere, now buried in a silvered dew, the world at large has shrunk beneath the gravity of its own presence. On the surface of all seen things faces are bereft of identity. Home seems far away, a place where an awakening ghost waits for its own arrival. All the works of a self-creating oeuvre are naming themselves ‘home’ but ‘home’ knows nothing of any journeys made between these disinherited regions. From behind a cloud of nowhere a frameless door swings open; nothing enters, yet All That Ever Was steps out to greet it.