Fingers bleeding

Scratching the surface
of this existence,
fingers bleeding,
and frustration at times,
but no further than the
outer part of who knows what
lies obscured beneath.

Told by those long ago
that there is something
beneath, beyond or above,
lying at the heart and the soul
of all things in the realm,
in the sacred or the complete.

But still scratching and excited
but tired in this moment of
digging that goes on and on,
like a dog that never can
find the bone that’s in its dream.