Loose lips lay claim that “Ego” is my name,
just a fanciful play in a fast fleeting game,
though would you find some fault in me
I say look closer, not in vain —
what stands before you now
is well and fully free of blame!
The one saints strive to be without
is simply that which — king or lout —
reflects a schism in the view,
the mirror here suggests a clue;
but lest you judge me well or ill,
“The play’s the thing”,
and so says Will!
In nature’s tryst of light and dark,
and even as the curtains part, behold
already here I am, do not mistake me
for a man, as any wise one may tell true:
‘tis not a thing the actors do,
but you who script the story’s plot,
and in such nets the fish is caught!
Witness how imaginary tales spin forth,
illusory appearances to happenstance reflect,
and though in any single beat of human heart
the meanest thing be shining holy bright,
what hath arisen surely shall decease,
gone the way of any windblown fleece,
impersonally vanishing from sight —
out of mind and on into the night.