The Tattered Self

Sometimes walking along the path ,
the traveler encounters his own needy shadow.
Perplexed by the question"that can't be me?"
The mirror must be confused.
It's just a visitation from a ghost,
some proximity of the real me.

Deep down knowing that the confrontation
was again pulling one toward ones own beckoning.
Where the revelation of the path through the mountains. Could be a way to silence the one in the mirror.
Oh my! How many me's have I created.
Every fear and hope creating a newer version.

Finally having to stop.
Not turning around or looking ahead.
But standing; face in hands.
Shedding tears for all the lost selfs.
Meticulously crafted ,so I wouldn't have to know
it would end as a dead end . Everything redistributed.

Speaking in a low voice, hoping the others parts won't hear.
This hidden silence, slowly deconstructing
the tortured and unassuming faces, or should I say "masks".
A moment again where the mountain path –
so obscured by the many stories painted so colorfully
across masks- distorting both eyes and ears.
Comes back into focus.

Winding its way towards the heavens.
Revealing snow and wind, to a high and rocky loneliness .
A place where we can take back
the image and break the mirror of " this and that".
At last letting the body carry this heart and mind.
Slowly letting the self recede in the amazement.
Being blessed by the relative and absolute.