The Self Is Born

Layer on layer, on yet another,

We cast our pretty, confusing shields,

For fear of others seeing who we are.

Within the web, we can no longer find

What we are now, who we were

Just a short time ago,

So we go searching.

Digging deeper and deeper,

Turning right and left,

Scraping shins, bonking heads,

Turning black and blue from dangers

Not only imagined but real,

Following clues only we can see

Until at last, we gyrate down to self.

So fragile at the heart of who we are,

Yet whose spindly limbs, a new born colt’s,

Already stand upright, moments only after birth.

The trouble is remembering, treasuring,

Once we leave the maze behind

And flee back to the real world

What it was like in there

When the self was born anew

And we knew the intimacy of

naked knowledge with no veils or illusions.