Throbbing, immense,

That voice thunders,

I quiver, I hide,

From the bane, recoil.

Bent double,

‘Tis Ego that winces, and cringes.

Has me in its hold.

They say, I am no good,

Loud, hammering, relentless,

Yet I rise, march on,

Head held high.

Ego sustains,

The spine, Ego upholds.

The child,

Abandons home, runs away,

Want more, says he,

It hurts, I bleed,

Askance – why me?

‘Tis the ego that moans,

‘Tis the wounded mother’s ego,

A weary, sublime echo.

The child revisits,

Foibles excused,

Humbled, now timorous.

Relieved love embraces.

Shaken, not forsaken,

Ego without its ism.

Friends stay, they go,

Places arrive, disappear,

There’s sea, there’s sand,

Rivers, their beds,

Iridescent valleys, mountains,

I ride them all, Ego rides along,

Stand by, on a night halt.

Rears its head, every once,

Held aloft, I dance.

Quiet when unneeded,

Restrained when unheeded,

When and where,

I learn, it watches,

I watch, it learns.

This Ego, is it me?

Or often, am I, Ego?