I believed once.
I believed once, upon a time, in a Dream,
a Dream so White as Snow,
Pure as Gold, and Resplendent as the Noonday Sun,
Shining like Silver,
I believed it to be so.
I believed in its Whiteness,
its absence of color,
of so-called Impurity,
in its prim trousers and its neatly combed hair,
oh I believed,
because I was taught to believe,
by those who were also taught to believe,
that a man or woman,
could not become Worthy unless
he or she became One with the White Dream,
and unless color faded in the brightness of the blinding light of Heaven,
‘If only I could get rid of such impurities!’
I would think,
and hope against hope that I was not who I’d become:
impure, base, humilis,
of the earth,
inextricably bound to the grindstone of time,
oh what horror!
oh what shame!
to be wrong,
to be existing upon the crumpled plane of existence
why oh why can’t I just be like them?
the ones ‘who have found the way and not erred in their ways’
and the irony
is that perception.
Now, I live in a white house on a hill
built and rebuilt by my own hands
Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
that the attainment of the Dream
will bring Happiness…
but it does not,
The Furrow and The Forge bears fruit,
and that is All,
while I seem to be swallowed up in it,
peering out of the fingers
and sinking like marbles in quicksand
down and out of sight
where I do not see the Dream,
nor have any recollection of its promises
only the heat of the Noonday sun
and its burning
of the imperfections,
until dark becomes so Dark,
it transfigures into Light
and Fear is only fear
for all Fears have been realized,
with no awful stone left unturned,
and only then,
all previous knowledge
becomes “like straw”
in a manger.