What is it I'm searching for?

Is it You

or me

or both at one time?

What do I hope to find in figures

in flesh

in the myriad images copying each other?

I'm not sure.

Blindly I scour to find You

or me

or both at one time

the same.

But how can this be

that at the one and the same 

are we?

Is there a bond of blood that binds us bound?

Some pretend that people don't search

pick through alleys or garbage to find

some treasure tossed

some faint remembrance of a foggy past

some fabric of life worn thin

neath clothes of splendor

smelling of the sourness of shit

the stench of human failings

that ev'ry human smears upon itself

even neath other-worldly wear

cloaking the body 

though leading the parade. 

"O Lord!", they shout

cursing all the failed ones of love

en-helling them

with attempts at riddance

howe're they must

and bring about 

the unveiling of their designs

to be gods above the devils

seven times more

the children of hell than they.

Now I know what I search

and who.

It's You in some way

and I

always

that hidden, smothered self in muck

that sad and shameful me

standing naked before the Sun

undisguised and taking heat

for the sins I've homed

and the hope I've sown

assured that one-day

Truth will set me free

even if from prison I gaze

upon scars etched while falling.

I've found Life

and am breathing free.