“My hands can’t feel to grip”

“My hands can’t feel to grip”

I find myself

It all seemed so solid

Like a church
Made of stone

Always there

I find reality

Through my hands
Through my mind

Maybe this is how it really is
How it has to be
No choice
Or wanting

This grip
This hold
Is thought

Thought likes permanence
A belief
An idea

A conclusion
Explained in detail

A ‘truth’
Swallowed whole

Authoritative traditions
Recycled by interpreters
Who fill the empty spaces

The ideas
The memories
They look out
Like a radar
How it will all be
Before getting there

The totalitarianism of the “I”

It is never humble
It is never with an open mind

Perception unfolded

Like water pouring into
The ocean

Then the ocean received
The water

The mind lost its grip

I cannot fit into
That crushing hold
That crushing grip
Which moulds
And shapes

The rebellion
The perception
The spark
The flame

“My hands can’t feel to grip”