The Weaver of Light

 

I shed the cloth of worldly guise,

No map to trace, no outward eyes.

The heavy self, a veiled unseen,

Wandered fields of might-have-been.

They called, "You're found! A path you tread!"

But fingers waved, then turned and fled.

The swirling crowd, a transient show,

Vanished like a whisper, low.

I passed through doors that led to none,

Chased shadows dancing in the sun.

Their echoes clung like threadbare lace,

But could not stitch a lasting place.

Yet deeper than their doubt’s harsh sound,

A quiet knowing, I then found.

Not pride, but truth, a fervent plea,

To spite the void, to simply be.

Some seekers paused, their lanterns dim,

With heavy eyes and hope grown thin.

But still I stood, through dusk and flame,

No need for praise, no thirst for name.

My breath, a whisper, pure and deep,

Across the hush of silence sweep.

Each step not forward, but within—

A pathless path beneath the skin.

I am no painting, framed by sight,

But canvas woven, from pure light.

Not shaped by form or shadow’s bend,

But spun from stars that never end.

A silent hum, a sacred sigh,

Beneath the wide, unclouded sky.

Not void, not lack, not absence bare,

But spaciousness beyond compare.

I bowed my head, the outward gone,

To feel the rise of inner dawn.

The mind grew still, the heart unspooled,

The restless sea at last was cooled.

No need to seek, no need to chase—

I was, I am, that silent place.

And in that stillness, dust refined,

The boundless, peaceful Self I find.