Finding ourselves in mythologies we find
Better mythologies for ourselves, for what’s
Often been expressed, but never well enough
Yet. Who seems more heroic to you, the amygdala
Or the prefrontal cortex? To what immortal
Are you both attracted and ashamed to confess?
Who can make you do the harder thing when
It’s the right thing to do? Whose story persuades
You that you secretly know there’s no right
Thing to do? On your deathbed, in all likelihood
You will have neither words nor regrets, and stories
Will have all flown away. But with your last
Moments of fiction, as yourself, as your myth
Of being a self with awareness of being, too tired
To speak, having difficulty breathing, wanting
To leave, wanting to sleep, you may see shining
The ash-eyed goddess or the bearded ferryman,
The benign messenger, the ogre guardian,
The apostle, the philosopher, the servant,
Or your sinking self, the doomed leviathan.
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