Ten Parts
I have ten parts to my heart
Ten parts that you take
Ten parts that you watch for
Ten parts where I ache
The runner is heavy, her breath out of wind
You take her up gently, and lift her to end
The mistress is surly, and tangled a lot
You take her in softly, untie all the knots
The witness is worried, her song out of reach
You take her beside you, the music you teach
The loner is hope-drained, her view rather bleak
You take her hand kindly, and starlight you seek
The lover is awe-struck, her emptiness grows
You take her eyes to you, and mend all her woes
The child is spinning, her thoughts moving swift
You take her mind off things, and offer a lift
The seeker is weary, so much truth to be found
You take her ear tender, and whisper no sound
The actor is drowning, she’s pretending to be
You take her dreams with you, and set them all free
The poet is hiding, her heart severed in two
You take in her pieces, and make her anew
The angel is crying, her fears come again
You take her pain to you, and call her dear friend
Blackened I am by the course of you running through my veins; your amber-scarlet blood penetrating the thoughts of who I am, when I know naught whom you be.
You move through me with energy of perfection, detangling me from my dream-state and honoring me with passion, unyielding and buried beneath the mysteries of this world.
I shake at the thought of you; your face deliberately erased; your motions scouring my insides; I glance upon your presence and feel lessened, my inherent goodness screaming to be seen beneath the brilliant shadow of your light.
Hold me I would beg, if holding would suffice, but you are no less man than me, a wisp of brilliance let out of lover’s door to set upon my soul-fed night; suffering I am, in the ring of fire you proclaim, suffocating to swallow, to breathe in a substance so divine.
I am not enough to know you, a dullness without touch. Nor am I enough to breathe you, my mouth agape wishing blindly.
I am suffocated by the wrath I be; myself the chariot charging and bludgeoning the hallowed spaces of soul, plowing the fields for none but you.
Though still you set upon me, young bird upon perch, nibbling at the feathers of your wings, singing into an immeasurable emptiness that need be me.
My own self betrays, wrapping itself layer upon layer in a clear film of un-discovery, for I want to be as the charming one, the one beneath the garden day, where you are made to sweep upon me golden petals for bedding.
For I am but one, in this whirlpool of music, confused trembling fawn, searching for your substance, laden with this sundering that enters time and time again.
Inside flame, I am burdened with deliberate desire, when all about door upon door be shut, the doorways blocked, the treasure hidden.
How does one harbor this grand symphony of sound, when one’s own eyes cannot harness your immeasurable form?
Is this your music, your warmth, your blood that swims within, or am I merely a collaboration of symbolic fluid, the essence pouring through as echos past?
Or am I more? This ghost herself, circulating through the soul of you.
I miss you.
I miss you as the dancer without song, spun in a room of silence.
I miss you as the hermit without retreat, exposed and without solace.
I miss you as the captured without captive, unchained but forever haunted.
I miss you as the player without drum, hands in search of familiar substance.
I miss you as the gardener without rain, tear-filled eyes beseeching sky.
I miss you as the turnip without ground, plucked and slaughtered for the water that boils.
I miss you as the treasure without gold, disillusioned by the nakedness of finding.
I miss you as the barber without scissors, staring at an empty chair.
I miss you as the window without pane, hollowed and broken on the inside.
I miss you as the crow without mate, crying black soul in isolation.
I miss you as the plate without meal, serving nothing but streaked reflection.
I miss you as the tea without water, left in form without tangible purpose.
I miss you as the hunter without prey, circling in darkened sky for fill.
I miss you as the willow without leaf, dying without that sun that feeds.
I miss you as the words without page, thoughts lost in the swell of time.
I miss you as the climber without rock, left down in the valley of longing.
I miss you as the child without train, abandoned before journey begins.
I miss you as the woman without fingers, grasping with invisible ghosts.
I miss you as the blanket without babe, sweetness stolen.
I miss you as the knife without blade, cutting through nothing.
I miss you as the clock without hands, turning for no one.
I miss you as the star without night, shining without a holding space.
I miss you.
In all forms, in all shapes, in all ways, I miss you.
I miss you as the diary without key, locked away in secrets meant for you.
~ Samantha Craft, February 2013
“Love begets love. Fear begets fear. Fear is love turned inside out, love hidden from the light. Love is fear turned inside out, fear exposed to the light. Take it upon yourself to expose the fear to the light or to bury the fear into the darkness, from here only love will sprout; whether from beneath you or from above you, love will command this fear to leave, returning the fear back to the illusion from which it was birthed. Turn yourself, this intricate fabric of life you be, and in your turning the truth shall be.” ~ Sam
The cloth of this world is a precise image: a piece of black fabric, black on both sides. Somewhat like a pillowcase and similar to a hood of a jacket unattached to the whole.
Love is on one side of the black cloth, and fear is on the other side.
If love be on the outside, exposed, then the image of love can be turned inside out, exposing the counterside of fear. When this happens, it is a step in faith, wherein fear is taken out of the dark and exposed to the light, rebirthed and sprouting from the hidden foundation of love. Here while love is nuturing the soils beneath, fear is exposed to be cleansed and taken by the light. Soon only love remains.
Some cloths begin with fear on the outside, with love yet not exposed. This fear is utilized as a shield of sorts, a means of protection from perceived cruelness.
When this unbridled fear is turned inside out, and love is placed on the outside, this fear taken out of the spotlight, no longer used as shield, and put into the darkness to rest, then the other side of the fabric, of love, is exposed.
In this way the light of love is brought forward. This love becomes brilliant once exposed. Because this love shines so brightly, the cloth on the other side, beneath love, where fear rests, is penetrated and cleansed.
Thusly in so turning fear inside out, the whole of the fabric is turned to love.
In so doing, the fabric is cleansed on both sides, entirely whole in love.
Where there was once fear, no fear remains, only an effervescent glow of love.
I see this as a way to heal the world, as one upon the next the fear is exposed to the light, either by turning the fear under or turning the fear outward.
I see this clearly.
I see this continual rebirthing of love, as I feed my own fear to the light.
For the light is not damaged my illusion, and the light can only see love.
In so doing, in willingly turning over the fabric of what I be, I am instantly healed.
Proclaiming my fear to the world in totality sets me free.
The cloth I am is purified by love and light, so that the stitchings of my soul radiate the truth beyond the illusion of fear.
With nothing buried beneath, I am freed.
I think this is the time of shedding for the world, for the cloths to be turned inside-out in whatever fashion need be, for the fear to be laid to rest, evaporated, and lifted, though illusion it be.
For it is in the gentle stirrings of love we are each healed, my healing affecting another’s healing, and vise versa.
It is in the clinging on to illusion of fear that we are buried deeper into a place of disillusionment and isolation, wherein illusion (fear) is given the power that love naturally carries.
It is in being fearless, in fearing less, in trusting in the power that is, that we be set free.
Behold this imaginary fabric, that is more real than real, and twist and contort your cloth, to surmise your doings and bearings, and to find the gentle way into peace; wherein your fear is admitted and released all with the touch of thought, with the hand of spirit, given up to that who can take freely without harm and return divinely what is inherently good in you: you in completion, the illusion lifted, and your self revealed.
Go to your neighbor and announce to him your fear, whatever it be. If they are truly carrying the light of love, they will embrace you in totality. If they are not, then perhaps it be time to look elsewhere.
Say onto another: “I am afraid.” Of what or whom, it does not matter. For in admitting your fear you have released it.
Admit and release, and the gentleness of love shall embrace you. For it is in the emotions of naught that love is rebirthed again and again.
To give of fear freely, to pronounce this fear to the world, and then to watch it dissipate is your task, and your task alone. For only then will the healing of one affect the healing of all.
There is no enemy outside self, outside this fear.
All is illusion birthed from the bed of fear.
Step into the light and watch the illusion shed.
Be whole in your goodness.
Shine bright.
And recognize where there was once misfortune and pain, there only be gratitude.
For you have been shown the truth, as your eyes are ready to see, and in this seeing you are eternally blessed. Embraced in the light of the world that emanates from your being put here to show the truth of spirit, that together in unity, in mission, in the unfolding and refolding of self, we can proclaim the goodness of one and in turn announce the goodness of all.
There are no shadows, no mysteries, no chambers of hidden secrets, there is only stepping into the light, again and again and again, until you are spirit, beacon upon beacon radiating the joy to the world upon worlds, and lifting the ailments of soul to the next level of enlightenment.
With a step of faith move into this illusion fear, and there purge, like no other, the imaginary demons that stir you, where light was meant to be.
Turn out your fabric to the sun, as cloth is hung out in the day; turn out your cloth to the dark as seed is buried in soil, and see what is rebirthed from the illusion of thirst and want; turn out your blessed cloth, and expose your unyielding light to the world.
It is time, and I await you here, my dear blessed one.
You found me in this river, swimming.
You found me in this ocean, the sea before the sea.
A virgin I watched, as waters lapped above me, the pool enriching the substance of my heat.
Misery was captured in the bubbles, foam perched beyond the horizon, distance haunting and calling me free.
I came, as one often comes, for dinner of delight; my appetite wrapped in folded crimson napkin; my supper less for cause than for circumstance.
For I wanted to dance, and with you I wished to breathe.
I came from the depths of the blue, no more familiar to this land than the sturgeon to the vine of the trees.
How I dug my feet in the sand, like a summer day that first kisses your forehead.
I moved, a child to this world, in a way I both recognized and denied, an innocence so refined.
I watched for you, a symphony to my senses, ripping apart my insides so that they fluttered out a butterfly of sorts, dancing about your grave stone and singing to the heaven’s lords.
I turned and danced merrily, your shadow still beneath, your image laid down in the earth’s grumblings.
You were vision.
You were sensuality.
You were the purpose for which I left my castle of the sea and stepped upon the land, less naked than guised in the wonderment of unfamiliar.
I shivered from the bounty before me, all decorated in the drapes of uncertainty, and I wished, with my delicate heart, to find you where you rested, a man of my waiting.
I whispered into the shells I carried: “Hello, my sweet beneath me. Hello, my land of man. Hello, my angel dreaming. Hello, my ember hand.”
And I twirled in the dress of satin white, knitted and laced, sewn with the grandest of merriment, the child I be.
In my youth I would dream you into existence and just be; you as my soldier true returned from where it was you went; me, your diamond carved for scarlet string draped around your nape.
And I would rest there, in my vision, my skin upon your skin, sparkling as if we’d both been kissed by father sun.
I’d rest and feel the beat from that of one I’d wished upon. A star wrapped into the golden skin of you. How you shined so brightly but dimmed enough to soothe me to the place of shore-light’s lullaby; woven to sleep by your gentle grace.
My gentle man you were, as I sat along the side of your shadow buried, embraced by the near presence of the name of you. So calm your ways, so free and without the weight of what this world does bring.
I harbored you there, inside of me, not once, not twice, but for eternity, in this mingled embrace.
Kiss me I dreamed you to say, and knew that the fire that grew was not a demon birthed but the essential purpose of my being.
For twin sparked twin and ember came, again and again, like the fire that shows his last light before dying to the night sky.
Take me, I sang, and you did.
I held you there inside my dream, my lips smeared with the grace of where you’d touched, my hunting seized, my search swallowed, my destiny claimed and staked where the hold once be.
No longer empty, I clung on to the hope of return.
No longer forlorn and broken, I edged my own self up around my edges and found one where two once stood.
For you had gone, and in your leaving left me half again, not less, but more in my making.
And still I sit here, the waters below me, my breath breathing, my will willing you forward.
But I find you not, this angel you be; I find you not, for forever is before me no more, only the ocean of endless tomorrow in which you exist not; neither ripped away from past or brought forward to future, in the cyclic cycle of new dawn after new dawn.
You are a wavering memory, wiped clean before tasted, swept out of the eyes before entering, and I am left wondering if you ever came or I wished it so to be.
Everyday Asperger's 