When

When imagination grows stale and I begin

 the search for that in which I may not believe

when muses leave and all that’s left’s calligraphy

and I let go of all those things to which I cleave

when I no longer feel the raging fire

burning deeply down there in my soul

filling me with curious want and desire

to taste smell feel and hear the opal

when no visions of vast ocean or desert

ceases passion's rise for manifest

of hungers and yearnings and need to assert

myself in the passing of some obscure test

when I finally let jinni out of the bottle

curious to see where the least trodden path will lead

and at last I have no more need to quarrel

with those who seem to set out to deceive

I wonder if for my former existence I’ll grieve.

If the regaining of innocence and the loss of ignorance

is yet too soft a tapestry to weave.