#Philosophistication

Sameness Of Consciousness
~Identity Crisis~

“What we are looking for is what is looking.”
St. Francis of Assisi

In due time we become.
A single strand of hair in the
midst of a barber’s floor, one
dot ending a badly written prose,
a mouse’s queef, a grain of pollen
on a bee sting, a broken toenail
in a plane crash, a whisper at a
concert, a sigh in the midst of
hurricanes, a poetic verse in
a library of a thousand books,
silence amongst silent whimpers.

Again…
Enter the ship of Theseus,
born man, limbs and backs,
ribs and neck, cries and pain,
touch and scars, man a mess.
Made a mess, arteries and
capillaries, where art thou is the artistry,
fed consciousness; me, you, differing
specie, housing ego, housing
meaning behind self belief,
self love and self-indulging of
what you think. Grow older,
love and marriage, dance by the bay,
day by day, boredom stays, divorce:
thy love melted away, suicide
and decide to dance with death.

Again. Born a man of stature,
umbilical dangling, toddler
searching for the fodder of reason,
fulfill goals, oaths and follow
where the sun grows into a moonlight,
fruit of youthfulness, deviant
to parented order, harvest
bliss through being unconscious
in your consciousness, limitless
is the joy of the careless, the night but
is the knight offering delight,
now overdose and dead.

Again. Born a woman, lady
of the well, dancing innocence
into the eyes of the seeing,
purity and white dresses, dolls
and weaving of threads, wet
beds and hugs from concerned
mothers, age is like page, flip and
the ending is nigh, love and vows,
man bows, finger is bound,
matrimony and heavenly bliss,
kisses, intimacy, then miscarriages,
abandoned sold carriages, tears
and wrong intentions, ending marriage,
left on doorsteps, weeping and scarred,
still the lady of well, now drown
in one; swim with death.

Again. Life is an empty page,
born a heathen, daughter of
the dead, orphan bred by dogs
in cages, from wombs awakened by lashes,
patches, tears, wondering and
wandering, life’s a stage, the
script written by unseen hands,
donations and luck breathes fate,
socialized, sing the songs
of the learnered, academic
accomplishments, well mannered,
calculations and open wallets,
education and solitude is granted,
independence and prosperity
is spotted, high heels, aim
for the hills and the catapult to
the sun, grow old, Dementia eats apart,
Robbin Williams confusion,
suicidal then dead.

Back and forth, what if life is
a game of births and deaths?
Wombs and tombs, awakenings
and sleeping giants, from the
Shakespeares to that illiterate
uncle who knows words in his
own way. Is reincarnation then
a thing to embrace?
Nay, what if we’re merely one
consciousness in different vessels
and we never perish or fade away,
we just become a colourant dropped
in a clear ocean, we become the
ocean, we become!

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Jose Roosevelt

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

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