Watching a Storm Dispersing

The self does not create the self.
The self is a storm of the flesh
Whipped up by the outer weather
Blown in on language from the mind.

The self is not the body.
The body is not the self,
But neither’s a spinning human
The moment their bond dissipates.

There’s nothing stable to the self,
And self-awareness is nothing
Much brought and returned to nothing,
Not the whirlwind, only the eye

Where the storm makes what’s not a storm,
A kind of a null that depends
On the storm, null that vanishes
As soon as the storm disperses.