© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry

 

~ trapless

 

What is this peace sought

In the bowels of deep dancing?

What is this balance wrought

From the play of seen and unseen?

The harmony of discordant forces

The core us of cacophonous voices...

 

I look, and all I see is another me,

reflected prismatically in all I perceive.

I ask, and only the knowing in my heart could offer a true answer:

 

Perfection is a trap.

Made to keep us ever whipping our own backs.

Made to keep the machine producing 

and the mind from ever fully knowing

why,

and how,

we really live.

 

All the mirrors are broken;

or perhaps only that which looks is fractured.

But the cracks are where we let the light in

and through what we peer

and see what has been, what might be, and perhaps, what is.

And the fertile darkness is what holds it all.

Don't let the noise silence you.

Don't let those who only move in lines and squares tell you how to be.

 

What is this peace sought

in the spiraling depths of our dance?

Purgative, penitent, prayerful, powerful,

perhaps, even, something not yet defined yet longingly known as the way home.

All the layers shed

and ghosts finally laid to rest

That we, at long last, may be free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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