Allan Morelock, July 4, 2015
© 2015 Allan Morelock
Pressing against the concave windows,
a thousand faces are competing
for the looking space
out though my eyes.
Each an experience from the past
sharing the same five letters of my name,
tattered a bit with what time does to memory.
Each calculating, comparing, estimating
And demanding my agreement
With assessments made
Of better than or less than.
The thousand faces, like gamblers at a roulette wheel
Spinning for which shall next stand in my shoes,
All dacoits and imposters,
authentic only to their own delusions.
Angry, sad, clown, victim, hero, teacher, spiritual,
Round and round they go.
Until for some unknown reason
they all sigh deeply and come to rest.
Pure seeing then left alone,
arising from just below the surface of my skin
and prior to the mechanics of bone, body and function.
Silent looking that carries forward
Into the seeing the sweet joy of non-evaluation.
Unaware of my name,
like an unclothed child
reckless with gifts of love
as though there is no limit on supply.