The Stream
I walked through the
illusion in prayer.
Conceptions prying at my soul.
To pause at the bank of the Stream.
The liquid sparkling of all souls.
All thoughts, and yours too,
adrift in unique bubbles;
countless in number;
counting the illusions;
a sum of only one.
My toe
entered the stream,
having known only cold;
warmed only by pretense.
My soul tasting everything,
the light and the dark,
always balanced in its perfection.
And it scared me so.
For to know all is to know nothing.
One cannot be without knowing.
My toe rebelling sent chills up my
spine.
What is known
may be enough.
-David Smith 2025
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