After many moons in the forest glades,

A faint smell of smoke and gentle laughter,

He turned away.

He turned away.

That’s not what he was after.

Walking in the dark

When the sun went down,

Living with the fauna nocturnal,

Just another night,

Just another day

To check off on his journal.

The shaman had said

He would find what he sought,

But he fought it.

He fought it.

His deepest impulse

Was to seek himself,

But he went strangely about it.

One dark lake,

One dark night,

Tired from ceaseless churning,

He sat still on the banks

Neath the moon,

With the stars overhead

Turning,

Turning.

All that he owned was his heartbeats.

He offered that as a pittance

To the great gods of the great night sky,

And instantly they sent their remittance.

He heard a name sweep over the lake,

And he stood in rapt attention,

In the knowledge of the knowledge 

Of the knowledge of the name

He’d been given in every dimension.

And now, he knew who he was again,

In the purest, most ultimate 

Way of knowing 

There has ever been.

And now he built a fire for himself 

And watched the beautiful flames.

And now, he laughed, a gentle laugh,

All to himself, and chuckled at his own laughter,

And smelled the smoke and said to himself,

That WAS what I was after.

-jenn