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I crossed the illness, 

Called self-loathing. 

It was feverish, harsh and fiery. 

It was bloated and sluggish and toad-like. 

It was pitiless, doubtful and death-loving. 

I crossed the illness, 

Called self-respect. 

I wrote and words poured out of me 

Like venom and plea and sorrow. 

I longed for something long lost, 

something long denied to me. 

We all play someone. 

And while I mastered the role, 

I denied my self-born child the experience of life. 

For life is courage

And courage is looking

Into the eyes of him (me)

And not averting the gaze

And not admiring the sight

And not correcting the perception

Or plotting corrections. 

I crossed the illness, 

Called self. 

And the land beneath me

Is the land of wondrous world. 

And I finally see it. 

I finally drink it and taste it and smell its breathless fields of rye. 

Is this what being god feels like then?

Am I it?