There is no burnt paper anymore
My age of confessions is over
I have nothing to hide from myself
My journals are just filled
With spiritual musings
The drama has gone
And angst is dead
No saxophone haunting
From my bedroom
No squalor beneath my
Guitar-fingers, only
The meditation of poems
The slapping phantom of laundry
An old apartment, beaten up
While my screen paints silversmithing
Of this unusual alchemy
The beating of blackberry wisdom
Into ripe aphorisms, it’s enough
For procrastination and myth
We all have to cross those waters
One day, astounded souls
Leaving games of chess and flirting behind
And filter flowers for golden messages
And live in a quiet place in Canada
Where the stars are not so cold
And all dark advice of shame is gone
Open to the wilderness, ready
To learn how to be free.
Wuji Seshat 