Keep knocking on truth’s door,
And eventually the door will open.
This reminder of Faith, among others,
Keeps my fist upright,
And provides my knuckles the strength,
To continue rapping on
The often hard and painful surface
Of a door which seems so intent on remaining in its closed position.
I am always both amused and in wonder,
Of how I am able to knock and knock and knock,
Even when my knuckles are bleeding,
And black and blue.
Still, sometimes I cry out in vain
In this mysterious, enveloping silence:
Why must my efforts seem so futile?
And why must the truth of my being feel like
A forgotten word
Which is on the tip of my tongue
But for the life of me, I cannot seem to recall it?
The earnest desire
For Freedom from myself,
Keeps pulling me back into this
Mad, invisible game of hide and seek-
Of hoping to catch even a glimpse of
What I already Am!
At times I almost burst out laughing
At this ridiculous occupation.
How could I take myself to be something I so clearly am not?
The charade continues
And I continue to believe I am merely a
Limited, quantifiable coin
When deep down, it is suspected
That I really am the Gold
The whole damn thing