This place defies explanation.

Down is up,

up is down

and sometimes

the direction doesn’t matter.


Sometimes time

is a stairway,

or a ladder,

or a river.

Sometimes the path

is a minute,

or an hour,

or a year.


The sky might be

above your head on Monday,

and be there,

below your feet by the weekend.


Head in the sand.

Head in the clouds;

it doesn’t matter.

All our afflictions

are endless here.

“Free your mind,”

they say,

“and your ass will follow.”

But free men are rare here,

and free minds rarer.


That’s why I’m sitting here

staring at this nuclear horizon,

stripped of vestments

and peeling off my ego.

Born clean,

but I’ve dipped in the corruption,

loaded my compass,

now I’m seeking something true.


Up and down,

don’t matter where I’m going.

It’s neither here,

nor there,

nor near,

or even far.


The ladder,

or the stair,

or the elevator;

I don’t care,

I’m going to get here.

One way, or the other,

I will get there.

Once I’m done

stripping off this ego,

I’ll be weightless.


HG – 2019

One thought on “Weightless

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