A Stranger. A Pilgrim.

“Death has a thousand doors to let out life: I shall find one.”
- Massinger

I am a stranger.
I keep my legs crossed
And my eyes shut lightly.
I sit in a dark room -
A familiar spot, every moon;
Fully aware of my abeyance
And content with it’s “third person draw.”
I have been here before
Mingling with my other lives -
Staring at myself in full three dimension
And laughing at my careless humanity.

I can’t speak the language I once could
But -- I remember well the words.
They were strong and high order, cachet and poetic.
And how they arranged them to please my wit -
And how they tumbled from my pen on command.

But where now, I ask, is that friction that sparks this prose?
Where is that sudden storm that thrusts me into myself - now?

I must have been a strange creature - this one;
Whipping forward a good word
While on pilgrimage, go I, into the nothingness.