Myth’s hard-edged wounding reins

Poised to jump, when self the flesh and spirit is, created and creator, suicidal resurrection; and in every time a wildness and a wiseness, worse than I am, and better – my comedies all vice, my tragedies all horror of vice, my truth, a desperation of extremes. Less than truth, yet more than, more that which lifts to fall, abashed to be, better content not to be. Then what is that which is more than I, nor yet is truth? It is divinity, man-monster of self-fright uplifted to self-fascination, to cast the guardian shadow, pride. And how shall I, that is less than truth, endure into truth’s always, self-outlasting? Have not I a mind? A mind is a way to be with truth. It is a power asked, and a power granted, and when delivered up again Is vested in a covenant of power, by which all is made changeless, that power could not change, that power taught desistance. And this is power: to remain. Departed, disappeared, vanished, a thousand times, each time my presence more diminished, irretrievably, before delusion gave way to certainty. If you have to let look for me, I am already gone. If you have to look for me, you will never find me. Again, never let it be said, I was untrue, I never found a home inside of you. Who am I, then? Or do I know? Not gender-bound. Nor good or bad, nor right or wrong. Androgynous? Just read my hands, more yin than yang. But why identity, defined only to constrain? Why not in mystery prevail, all strengths and weaknesses coalesced, combined, incomprehesibly. And yet, despite and still, a clue most plain – major and minor arcana of every suit and number, benefactors and  adversaries of the Court, together, all in one. And yet, again, but clearer, I, alone, as I am, as I appear. An I whom mine is for the courage to be no other, others. As choice is mine, I make them now. Cynan Owain, my denomination; my mien, forbearing; my myth, ensuing. May the angels only leave me when I smile.