Looking deep

Inside myself,

I find things

In all degree of

Colourful multitude.

But who sees those things,

And from which vantage

Are they lit

And wholly perceived?

And so I turn around

And face the formless face of myself,

The placeless place

Lacking evidence

Of all but being’s

Un-identity.

Am I really nothing

But the looking,

But the seeing,

But the loving

Which loves itself

And loves

As a star illuminates?

For with each glance

The scent of something comes

Which fills my heart,

And when I see the love pass

I look again into nothing

And yet again

I am fulfilled.

And then, not dwelling,

I lift my eyes from the love

Which became alive,

Glance once more

To that which I cannot perceive

And look…….