Poor heroes we,
moved across the stage by our animal parts.
Lost and blind to what we move within.
We're children, growing, who've forgotten
to laugh along the way.
Could it be these forms have so little to do
with our real experience?
Rich men and fools all,
cast within different parts, just we
animal blind, I can't see for how it changes
rich man, fool, spiritualist, debaucher
secure and alone, frightened and tangled.
A million stories seem to run through me, together,
half animal, half conscious,
pressed between the rocks
of my enlightenment and death.
gallagher
01-09-77
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —