Who am I, really?

What a mystery this life of mine
no answers arise
clouds parting in melodrama
sunrise and set as usual
an illusion to the eye
as it’s always shining

I, Me, Mine — words to box up, signify
what exactly?
the boundaries between matter
that don’t really matter
or mean anything in particular
just eyes that open and close
to the truth inside

Eighty-four thousand ways— or maybe none —
to reach enlightenment
paths paved before my time
then written on parchment
etched in tablets
on hearts and minds
of those devotees
surely much more devoted than I

For who am I? To think I could
be so notable, so extremely renound
on this round rock flying through
an infinite and mysterious galaxy
universal cosmos stardust exploding
or imploding
bathed in light that pierces
and soaks deep into chasms
that actually float
in a vast emptiness
an open plane of nothing

Where everything arises.