The Circus

From the day I was born,

I began to die a little everyday,

It was a different kind of death,

Much like a circus, noisy, full of characters, 

Garish colours that oddly felt right,

Their bright mannerism like a door to door salesman,

Selling useless ware.

An invisible force,  I often found myself tied to,

Baffling too, for I could never make any sense of it.

The circus ran on its own,

If there was a Master, he stayed behind the curtain,

Watching, but never revealing himself.

Days and years of dying to sleep, to waking with sunrise,

And the circus that came alive with it, 

I forgot what death was really like,

Before the womb, before the seed.

A quiet, unerring darkness, an unknown cloak of drowsiness,

Like a boat gently slipping away from the shore,

Without the oarsman or his oars...

The Song of the Sufi Masroof