***
i am not he
any longer
and yet my shadow is
as angular, black as
his was, my voice as
scratched and rasped as
his was, my words
carelessly swung
swords as were
his words, my deeds
like plowing barren fields, like
breaking rocks into
dust, sad and pointless and
empty:
so too were
his filthy sick
hands.
his folly is my
sadness, his failing becomes my
habit, his silliness my frivolity; his
each new birth means
my death
and he is born
anew
daily.
(but so too
am i;
his is merely of
air,
dust,
wind;
mine of
water, of
fire, of
spirit, unnameable un-
tameable, un-
quenchable.)
(amen)
***
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