Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

This, to me, is spring.

I am.
That’s all.
And yet there’s more!
I see —
Because I haven’t
I know
Because I can’t
And was
What now I won’t
For I’m reborn,
And there’s a pulse, a breath
A brilliant rush!
Of nothing.
And I sprint
I crash
I laugh!
I leap
They seize me, I surrender
And I live!

And I drink the devastation,
And lament my desolation
And I know
I am unworthy of
Such agonizing
Joy!
And yet
At least a dozen times
I die
To find it all again
And wrench it out
Unraveling
In a reckless dance of utter collapse
To music of the sound of chains
And I emerge undone here on my knees
Baptized
In a font of sacred tears
That shine
Ethereal!
Over this once-sullen gem
Of perfect imperfections.

So I set forth
Triumphantly
To abdicate my….
Self
To the constellation of calamities
Stretched out ahead as “fate”;

For this
To me
Is passion.

Yes, this, to me
Is spring.

April 2, 2008 - Posted by | Poetry, Reincarnation | , , , , , , , , , ,

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