This dream of walking through the woods: A poem

The metaphors keep raining down on the flipside

of my comprehensions; and I go back and forth

trying to decipher the colours of these stones. This

membrane of my brain keeps colliding with reality.

And I discover, there is greater truth in mythic fantasy

than reality. It is a palpable corporeality beyond question

that I touch, that I feel with sensation beyond me;

that keeps me groping in the dark, wherein I apprehend secret,

sacred light. I am just you, waiting to be you! I am just you

between the candour and deception, the lamplight in the

darkening heralding the brightness of dawn, and it were not just

another morning of awakening. I listen to the rough seas, to the

windstorms, to the star fire, to the earth trembling; and I

discern, every flame of frail flower that drops its petals on my

floor, after each battle where I keep rejecting the profane.

Is it a scythe in a jungle that takes me to you? Through the

undergrowth, where my boots keep tangling and untangling,

that my shin and calves can find the energy to walk, so do

my feet in collusion. The commonality, the conglomeration, the

congeniality is a neat little trick of sacrifice and the humongousness

of a perennial altar of devotion and dedication (duty). My suffering is,

then, not an ordeal, but an autonomous mystery of feeling a kinship

with you, my dearest, and also, all that and those I cherish for eternity!