This desire is beyond me.

Though it stems from my essence

it is a vast ocean of longing 

that drowns any who would dare peer into the deep.

 

Mystics know that only such an unstoppable force can create life.

I trust the heart that made this wish.

I trust the thrust of evolution,

the wild unwinding of this tightly coiled yearning.

This illustrious hiss of serpent stirring my soil.

 

I want him. 

 

Though I know he's only a metaphor.

A mirror melting and molten

an image of perfect absolution

in the arms of the Beloved.

   who could only ever be inside me.

Though my skill at projection 

defeats my remembrance of origination.

And I long for the comfort of sight and touch.

 

All I want is love. We seem to think it's all we need.

As Juliet whispered to the moonlit face of her other

"The more I give to thee, the more I have,"

But that story haunts us with its tragedy,

not the reminding of love's infinitude.

Like this drama of self pulling against self,

set against the backdrop of memory,

past or future, 

of one perfect night.

That one perfect night when I got my wish.

That has not yet been, and yet always lives in that realm

just outside of our field of vision.

And though life can give us what is asked,

it never guarantees duration

or satiation.

Or that it will match the magnificence

of our imagination.

 

Can I love myself enough?

Can I sit in deserving fully enough,

to taste the nectar of adoration?

Or will I clasp the poisonous asp to my breast 

like the unrequited lover of old?

I can only ever hold either of those insubstantial alliances for a moment

before the longed-for embrace takes the life it gives.

Like the shadowed serpent,

what I think I want has been cast so far away by the very fear of not having,

which is only ecliped by the fear of actually having,

that I am left alone with my wanting,

rather than risking the letting go that quickly follows such ecstasy.

It must be so,

else I would not have known bliss and agony in such rapid succession

with such relentless repetition.

 

In the still, soft dark of the quiet night.

Longing for a specter of a memory,

a wafting intangibility,

that for a moment let me taste the fruit of wholeness.

And yet was but a shade of what could be.

 

Desire

     is beyond me.

 

I cannot fight it, fear giving into it, 

feel dead when I turn away from it.

and lost when I look its way.

No power of choice,

no carefulness of voice,

no force of will,

can make the fallen a Queen again.

 

But perhaps I can choose the manner of sacrifice

or rather,

that which is given.

The spell has been cast,

the fate sealed,

the fire inevitable,

the thirst unquenchable.

But perhaps the gift is in the intractable inevitability

of this human frailty.

The fulfillment wiser than the plan.

And offering all the broken pieces,

in all their imperfect glory,

will bring me to the edge of history.

And give me what I truly wanted,

under the face of the longing,

 and beyond any inessential wish.

Sometimes we cannot look at a thing directly,

only its reflection.

The connection to Source made through pulsing perception.

Careless gaze an invitation

to our own destruction,

as Medusa rendered immobile

any who would not humble

themselves in the presence 

of the primal life force.

 

Sunlight is blinding straight on.

But we can witness it in rippling sparkling water,

growing food,

the brilliance of the Moon,

the effulgence of our songs.

Wind can only be seen by its effect.

The force of its motion only visible on what it has moved.

Music is intangible,

its essence undefinable.

It cannot be felt with skin,

or deciphered with mind,

yet it transforms time, ​

spirals into our cells,

entrains our hearts with rhythmic spells,

sparks awake our DNA

in a chain reaction of activation

until there is no telling

who is playing,

and who is being played.

 

Water is immobile on its own

yet ever flowing

on this planet beholden 

to gravity and slope,

wind and condensation,

perpetual evaporation,

rapid temperature fluctuation,

and all the things that give water her properties.

 

Life is made of life.

We are all built of the selfsame dust, 

dependent upon gravity and fire to become stars.

Nature knows no such thing as isolation.

This dimension is made of mirrors.

We are defined by our interpenetration

of everything.

It is the dappling of sunlight that gives it meaning

and allows our perceiving.

The wind-made waves that let us observe the water

as it reflects the bottomless sky.

Please reload

© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry