These days
The lonely words spoken in your head
That seem to shout, condemn
And measure you
Against just about everything else,
Pronouncing you lacking
In all of what you could, would and ought to be,
And thus leaving you
Feeling quite sorry
And down about the mouth,
Can now be named

As

The modern day, 21st century singular self,
So – individual
Yet
So – off the peg,
So – go it alone
Yet,
So – going along with everybody else,
So – I don’t need anybody
Yet,
So – in need of every other one.

Where speaks the other language,
The older self beyond the singular
Where love is prolific
And condemnation
Is past magic
No longer used
In the mind’s
Spacious vessel
Of new beginnings
And things born
To freshness
And the moods
Of kindness
Flushing the body
Energised and clean?

Where speaks the other mind?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.