The land of Nod
When the cord is cut, our original attachment,
not just to mother but also Father, any other,
the wound is so deep and great,
rarely does it heal over a lifetime,
wandering the land of Nod in the hope
of a poultice, a concoction of ultimate remedy.
Over the aeons, we have gotten plastered
by every voodoo cure, herb and root,
mustard seed and devil's club;
chased the old wives' tales
around every bend and corner
and come up empty and hurting,
none the wiser and further
impaired deep in the core
where it all begins and never leaves,
where the world's cataplasm cannot reach.
So the dog chases its tail, the tale of human history,
unable, it seems, to turn and face the truth
of our permanently attached oneness
and our hidden-in-plain-view non-existence.
O child of God, you and I are not we but One
means the notion of you must be abandoned.