I exist in a vacuum of sleep, most of the time,
except for those few moments sublime
when the illusion is lifted
and the sands of time are sifted
thoroughly enough to allow
a brief glimpse into the now.

During the hours of rest my soul awkens, unrested,
longing to be honestly tested,
only to fall back into slumber, once more denied.
I call out to myself across the divide,
yet receive no reply in kind.
I am a pilgrim lost in the wilderness of my own mind.

Dreamer or dream, which of these is real?
There is a feast upon the table and still I must steal
the simple bread that feeds my malnourished spirit.
The song is sung, this I know, even though I can't hear it
as I sleepwalk my way through another day,
oblivious to the foul odour of my own decay.

In fear and by tear, I've been bound to the lies,
unwilling to shed this pale disguise
and unaware of the slow inner death,
even as my body draws breath.
Tucked away in the dark, comfortable and warm
in the false security I've found in the eye of the storm.

My eyes fling wide open as physical death grows near.
It has taken many lifetimes for me to get here.
The Am that I Am is dominant at last,
awakening within what has slept in the past.
I discover as I stand in the light of creation,
my destiny and my destination
IS A CIRCLE.

a poem by Donald Wilfong

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