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Rated: E · Poetry · Psychology · #358825
I am not my body, my feelings, my thoughts, my actions, or my possessions. What am I?
A self

a place to be
each moment
of every step

born from labor and separation
banished when we leave our father's loins
expelled from our mother's wombs we dwell alone

experience only ours
each moment a star
glistening in the existential universe
where we dwell like gods creating our existence

weaving the space time cloth
which clothes the unfathomable nothingness
from whence we come and go
eternity after eternity
in a celebratory procession
of our selves to perfection
© Copyright 2002 Don Anderson (ordinarymystic at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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