By S. T. Brant
How do you write? How can you think? How can you be free? There is no way…
You’re looking for no place. You have come about in an age where angels are dead,
all stars dying.
Dwindling instead of burning,
meaning without Meaning.
Bonaventura didn’t claim the self was god,
though I wish he did.
He said the self can become- can join god.
The self can never be lost,
it can always be augmented.
All things lead back to center;
all can be absorbed,
all leads up.
There is no distinction between lost and found;
The self is always journeying,
so if it’s lost it’s on its way;
if it’s sure of itself, it should keep the path.
The journey never wavers from the soul’s circumference.
S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram.