Paper tiger
At some point, the path becomes self-verifying,
its own guide; with easily discernible boundaries.
At some turn in the road, annihilation
portends freedom, the right thing to do;
the only treasure to give. Every
self-assertion
becomes transparent and repugnant;
every question identified as the dodge,
deflection that it is; every guile pathetic,
the crumbling castle, feet of clay;
the paper tiger insufficient in its roar.
At some point, the arrows fail to penetrate
and the clamor of the crowd, the invalidation
of the enchanted, the drunken and oblivious
become palm leaves under donkey hooves,
aiding the pilgrim to wend his the way.
At some arrival, you swing through a door
and though you weave in and out for a time thereafter,
losing your grip and footing, there’s no turning back,
no way to remain that which you no longer
seem to be and have lifelong been.
O child of God, the path never gets easier
but dedication brings surety and daring.
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