Unfinished Soliloquy

I leave again for the forthright light. 
It is like blue light and is diffused.
I have seen pink light and its hue.
And once The Moon shone brightly over me,
I can't describe this light.
I am like everyone in this regard,
As no one has steered to the moon.
Who then could lay such a claim?
Let us just call it pure light.   

My welter step is a sure reassurance,
That I am moving correctly.
I am clothed in crimson fluid,
Because I have contested with myself,
Who else could beat me?
After,
I empty the sorrows
In which I have bathed
and remove the filter to breath again.

I seek the forthright light
And the path on which it shines.
The place of the feather,
The Angels' feather,
The flock.
My keel is disfunctional
I will not take flight.
And so unlike a Northern Lapwing, the peewit
I remain, if only mentally in situ.

This is the tangle which is holding me back.
The tangle being self consciousness.
Some say its a stream of consciousness,
This is to confuse it with the passage of time.
Life is like a knot of life lines.
Consciousness is a tangle because there is no order.
There is no timescape with which
To set yourself by.
Because we all think in darts.

©2018 Christopher Thompson