One of These Days, I’ll Stop Asking


The holy books ask me to remember
Who I am,
What I am,
But how can I remember what I have
Never known?

Wake up! they plead with each verse,
But I cling to my dream,
Awake in this constant world.
This is who I am,
What I know.

There is no more,
No waking other.
And these books are just trees,
Cut down and stained with lies
By other dreamers.

So why do look for more
Dream tales carved into rocks,
Scratched into trees?
My eyes are open
Though I sleep.