Inquiry into the Texture of Experience
and the Plausibility of Reincarnation
flashes forth from waking dreams –
A peek-a-boo of sun among the clouds.
Music’s mystery, too, has softs and louds –
My consciousness, more fractured than it seems.
When barely small, I formed the
Abstract from intermittent smells and touch,
And then my precious self, another such
constructed separation from ‘the other’.
My isolation and the dread
not the human fate, but mere illusion.
The goals I set myself in such profusion:
each a meditation on the breath.
If only I might
fathom where I’ve been
when, bridging deaths, I wake in different skin!