The Disciple

I watch.

I see.

Catechumen sitting on the stairs

strange and distant.

Confusion between his cradling hands

his head the babe.

The mind cradled in the child.

*

He’s sitting on the answer.

The stairs.

Eternal

Ephemeral

Up

Down

Spiraling no end

Each ending abruptly

a scale on a snake

Each step a piece of life

and so it goes on.

A feather floats

Silently

Haphazardly

Creating it’s own geometry in the air

It’s own geometry waltzing.

Distant music.

Shallow hum of people.

Laughter, shouts

Distant

All texture the air quite pleasantly.

*

And still he thinks.

This catechumen

still pondering.

Me watching

like a teacher – no

a god.

Distant, quiet

respectful of his wandering.

Me, dressed in black.

Typical of a god of war,

no – destruction.

Leaning against a wall

drink in one hand,

cigarette in the other.

Simply observing.

*

I could give him the answer

but that would be too

convenient.

Too awesomely devastating.

I have had many masters:

music

television

time.

All sour and sweet

I have been a loyal disciple

to The God

to a god

to all gods

and still I find only one.

Only one to be true to.

*

I remain a disciple to myself.

The Disciple