Is it false devotion
when the feeling is that refuge
is out of reach?
Does the friend forgive
contemplations and deeds
that may be darker than shadows?
Where do prayers blow
when they are whispered from
a place of despair?
I stumble to the ground
as my mind knows that
love is a thing of the heart.
This sometimes child
has become so heavy longing to remember
wings and that monarch.
Certain of having been picked up
so many times before-
my arms are reaching once again.
Tell me
of the reverence that perseveres
when in drought.
How does one dance
in the Tavern, under the moon
when they can’t get off the ground?
Lenses obscured,
view finder fragmented
to truths that never fade.
A dramatic slipping
born out of resistance
to honor life’s unfoldings.
Something still stirs within,
a knowing
that there must be music somewhere.
A deeper memory of the ritual
to wake up and hang the sign
Love Lives Here.
When the wayfarers arrive
as they are sure to do
the sounds will turn to color.
A vantage point of expansion
will lift the chains so beauty may glimmer softly
once again.
