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The Miracle
My first poem


Self was once the self-built wall 
that stood between me and you.
Now it is but a warm handshake 
and a welcome for seeking souls.
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once the wild bull, the untrained horse, 
the stubborn donkey, the goat.
Now it is a gentle chariot, my well-trained camel, 
the boat in which the ocean abides.
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once the shameless tyrant, terrorized with fear 
and intimidating all in its domain.
Now it is but a pleasant greeting, an introduction, 
and the giver of drink to a thirsty stranger.
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once the arrogant, the rude,
The unconscious and careless of humanity.
Now it is the thinly covered veil through which
the flirtatious coquette views the possibilities of ravishing 
the hearts of would-be lovers.
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once the deceiver, 
the evasive and the coward.
Now it bears the cup and pours the wine.
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once the cocoon, the web
of the caterpillar's weaving in which
He trapped himself and died. 
Now useful maybe as a contribution 
to the nest of a passing bird.
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once the cruel slave master,
Doing its best to snuff the light within.
Now it is the greeter, the comforting smile.
The rapidly disappearing stagehand
before the host arrives. 
It serves me well, but who am I?

Self was once all it thought itself to be. 
Now it is but the illusion that others need to see.
It serves me well, but who am I?


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