I awoke this morning to a caterpillar
crawling down my arm.
soft and creepy, white and furry,
it wiggled its way over a cracked desert of skin.

As the moon waned far below the horizon
shining in the depths of someone else's night,
the rays of the sun blistered through the window
urging me to cease the frail moments of life.

And I thought, "Why do I even rise at all,
when I'll just be coming right back at night 
to lie here again facing the mystery."

It's as if our soul's descent into this harsh realm
is simply a journey back to its source.  
Yet what source is there of soul;
what opens my eyes each morning
like a butterfly awakening?

I strive in lingering pools of pain, 
thrashing in circles of chaos and treachery,
both posing as order, only to find a reflection...

A mystical vision of life and love that makes it soul.

And the spiral tapestry weaves its way into eternity sustaining the living flow that charges me moment by moment.

And I stretch myself across the tainted pages of life to realize...

I am not living this life. 
I am not, I am not, I am not 
living this life.  Life is living me.