LION IN WAITING

Here you are, my enemy, my friend,


again here, as you never left


the strange, familiar


cliff-edge of existing,


with vision compelled


into an abyss,


that powerlessly,


will dismiss


both time and timeless,


as if it never was


and never ought to be,


(you see).

Some call you Death, my enemy, my friend.



Footing a self, out of sight, no mind,


but enemy friend, lover, betrayer, wise man,


goddess and deadly secret, blind


to fools and the disillusioned night,


some don’t call you


any thing at all.


 


(Can I touch you?


No. In touch, I’m undermined).


 


I forget you never, ever leave,


and here you are, enemy, friend


as dust of form flies nowhere


in orgasmic torrents of


whatever it never was


nor ever will be.


 


And here, in this silent womb alone,


thrown again forsaken


in a wilderness of belief,


notice the relief,


as if


(behind this,


grand universal, time-space


curtain of the whole


gravitational misdemeanour),


we were always waiting


for this bodily, sweating, needing 


task of life to cease


so freedom can breath in peace


in no time now, for real.


 


Georgi Y. Johnson