Post-Myth Me Poem by Bhanu Padmo

The big blind snail crept on;
About me, the seedling of truth,
Soft and small, timid and frail.

And the blind snail so large,
When stars were its cells;
Invincible and unstoppable,
And when galaxies were its tissues;
Endless it was - they said.

And me the seedling of truth,
Timid and frail;
Like a wound-up string,
Potent but supple.

In the face of infinite drown I dreamt,
I dreamt of netting the unknown;
The unknown big blind snail that crept on;
Yet I was the wound-up string,
Potent but supple.

And as the big blind snail crept on,
I kept dreaming.
I dreamt beyond my deepest self,
Into and beyond meta-galaxies,
Till I met the end.

The end of infinity I saw,
Where it ceased to be;
The devouring demon,
The irresistible big blind snail.

At the frontier of divinity,
At this long-cherished goal,
The vision of limit did turn me on;
Me, the seedling of truth,
Soft and small;
Still like a wound-up string,
Timid and frail.

At the frontier of divinity,
At this long-cherished goal,
To invoke and weave was the willful cue;
To weave the net of within, making it a hive.

And lo! body wouldn*t run out of thread;
For, shape would win over the size, ere;
And thus would be won the big blind snail,
By the seedling of truth,
Timid and frail.

The hive would be the bee,
Bee-hive no more.

And as beast-seed then the living net,
Unto the whole would be blended seamlessly;
Unto the big blind snail of illusory creep;
To turn it around in favor of my dream,
In favor of me,
The seedling of truth.

The myth is gone;
Aha! behold the great sprouting tree;
Where leaves are the galaxies,
And seeded at me.

I*m indeed the creeper,
As the insidious net;
When the passing pre-truth is the wound-up string;
For ever empowering the post-myth me.