I'm trying.

No need to run outside for better seeing.
        Or walk to nearby windows.
        Staying here -- the right place for
                being.
        So Sartré said.

        The more I leave it
        The less I'm free.
        Search your heart and see,
        We are not unwise to rebirth
                gradually.

        The way to do is to be
                (I've always felt that).
        The way to be is to do.
                That thought has plagued
                 me too.

I'm sighing.

I've ordered and organized reality,
        Too often simplifying.
        I thought the price right, buying.
        Letting it happen to life I once
                called sacred.

I've been lying.
        It's been harder than I thought to
                love prevent.

Am I dying?

Awareness haunts me, and her brother,
                chaos.
        Today untamed, tomorrow
                unnamed.
        Not really knowing if I'm going
        To a meeting between my other
                selves and I
        Or to a soulless flying.

Phoenix rendezvous?

Letting go is like this:  fear and lying,
                faith and crying.
        And bargaining, no denying.
        Giving up puts backward parts of
                me behind,
                Yielding, a different mind,
        Where broken-ness is sane.
        The pathfinder is pain.
        Joyful evolution, the
                seductive gain,
        Some say even cellular change.
        That's what we came here for.

Gods always ask us for more.

I am dying.
        Quenching colliding forces and
                hatching new self.
        Composure never quite setting in,
                Like rigor mortis?
        Instead, my consciousness and
                being,
        Grasping one another, flex and
                unbend,
        With endless ends and new
                beginnings.

Fire rites:  flames licking, transformation
                finds a home again.