Our Dusty tomes Of Philosophy

We are like a student of aloneness.

We rifle through pages of verse,

which speak of it.

We pore over dusty tomes of philosophy

and rhetoric,

In the dim lamp light,

Our eyes dry and squinty,

We run over each line with my finger as if we are searching

for deep treasure,

as if among these poets, philosophers,

mystics or fakes -

We might find a word,

a sentence even,

that will satisfy

this curiosity

of alone.

The school may be elusive,

bound up in dark cloud,

but not so harsh anymore.

We even try and come as close as we can.

We sit on my cushion cross legged

and wait

and wait

for that utterly blinding moment

that moment

( so beautiful )

when our aloneness transforms itself

into our closest

and dearest

comfort.

We will be lucky when this happens,

because it doesn't always.

But it drives us back to our seat again,

and again,

even kicking and screaming,

and sometimes terrified,

back to our alone school

because we so crave that moment.

Maybe that's a bad thing. Who can say?

But truthfully -

We crave it more than we have ever,

ever craved.