This poetry is ash
burnt from impure expression
of my living imperfection
borne with this
constant search for freedom
diving in the trash
transpoeting emotions
highly flammable
notions in excess
like brush
caught by the wildfires
superstitions
go up in smoke
and all the things
I believed were real
consumed bit by bit
stripped away by the time
I thought I had
the veneer rusts
and dust to dust
I am the charred ground
cleansed again fertile
the revived breath of life
in between what's sticky
and still clinging
to what survived
and what's clearing
the obstruction
of stiff competitions
barring the way
with high expectations
I'm Chariclo's song
singing to the longing
of wounded men
born with Chiron
as their guiding star
I am the harp
simple strings stirring
melodies of memories
bring back the spark
when the feeling is lost
and the trail has gone cold
when stillborn desire
is rendered impotent
I unfold
I have to leave
to kickstart again
death is a theme
of sight turned within
where control became
solely wielding words
shaping meaning
birthing dreams
to landscape worlds
I was born poeting
because prose
is too narrow a form
I'm not yet a poem
and not quite a sentence
I'm all the unexpected
tensions
the messy process
of converting
water to wine
here
in the fine line
in between
I am the dawning
understanding
the comprehension rising
as circuits ignite
sparks of insights
awakening is opening
to the folds of loss
seeing the truth
of you
plainly
lights the match
and you burn
brilliantly
you just wait
you will see
this you
that you believe
yourself to be
is no more
than a mask
worn blindly
by your innermost
flaw
it feels like dying
to learn again
I'm not
who I thought
I was
yet there I am
always
bridging the mundane
aches and pains
groping in the dark
transpoeting
for divine awareness
