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O Thinker

O thinker
I seem like death
I seem to be a void
In Me there’s nothing
to grasp
to comprehend
the end of you
and source of what is new

Foe and friend
right and wrong
good and evil
ought  ought not
have no place

So thinker, so thought,
even your child’s hideous face
your summoned past,
can hold you fast.
You can conceive
abuser and abused;
you can believe or weave
your woe-begotten song
of your father’s and lover’s wrong
and deepen, prolong
suffering, affirming –
what identity?
Yes, the painful story of you
may come to be a treasure
because it affirms, anchors you
as the known anchors, or familiar pleasure.
You can cling to what you think is true,
to self-righteousness swelling you –

avoiding Me
which judges not
and has no measure

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