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.
I think from where I come from there are no wolves.
I think where I used to live there are lots of givers and seekers and dreamers.
I think where I used to stand there was a huge glowing light of acceptance and love.
I think I was surrounded by kinship.
I think I was supported for my truth and vision.
I think that some of us have come from somewhere else, still carrying our light.
And I am often so very homesick.
I am careful. And I grow tired of this carefulness.
For where I come from, I don’t think there was this word careful, or at least not the implications and stitching that created the concept of careful. It is backwards, this word, backwards indeed. For to be careful one moves back into fear, always back, and I just don’t think fear existed where I was before.
Yet, still, this careful seems to be the sword I carry, unable to set it down, unable to really use it effectively, as all things stemmed from fear produce nothing but more fear. No beauty comes from careful. No beauty at all.
Though when I attempt to set down this phantom sword, coated in fear’s gold it be, I am pierced as if ribbons of shield have been peeled down about my chest and daggers thrown through, one upon the other; no less victim than victorious one, but still shattered and broken, staggering pain replacing the falsehood of fear.
And here, where I now stand, pained, there seems to be flowers of strife, shooting up black and withered-whole in bleakness from the dead and dying ground; these flowers seem to be trickery, enticing trickery, bleed out upon us in satisfaction, though empty-satisfaction it be.
And I watch as others pick at the illusion. Pick away.
And I want to shout: Careful; though I know this careful, as black flowers dead, does not exist.
And I stand witness, these wolves about, painting flowers black themselves, in hopes of passerby. Eating up self, though poison it be. Lapping at the dark fed out and bled out.
And I know not what to do, with this truth of illusion, of these givers who give not, of these wanters who want not, of all these dancers in illusion, from where I stand aware.
Shall I stop? Shall I watch? Shall I just breathe and wait for the embers of their very own self-inflicted fires to dim? Shall I dare touch while flame still scorches—to stand in the path created by the field-seekers, the ones destined to not so much fail, but to fall into self in a way so foreign that self is forgotten and all that remains is dim hope calling out from the corners of unreachable nowhere.
What do I dare do, when home calls out to me, some forever beacon lifting the veil of my senses and perspective? Do I call out, or stand here drowning in the destructive showers of reason mankind thrusts upon me?
What shall be my way, when I can barely touch and find where I am meant to be?
For I am not some forever-masked dancer bending down in retreat and hollowing burrows for my own escape. I am this dance within dance. I am the music without form. I am what moves the other to ecstasy and what cowers in the darkness afraid to shine.
For where I look, I know not what to do, but to sit out at the edges and wait while the divine calls me forward, motions me with finger-light:
“Come my child, come. Come dance in this place of no dance. Eat in this place of no eatery. Divulge thyself in the goodness that is naught, so you may pierce thine own heart and bleed out the falseness of the world.
Come my child, to this place of darkness and shine bright, shed the mask for my glory, and see me in all. Placate me, this once. Dance in the danger pleading for rescue. Dance in the danger diving for retreat amongst the living. Fear this place as I have feared and then move beyond the fear, to the one you recognize, to your home, that stands waiting beneath the dance, beneath the tango of refuge, beneath the floor, beneath the music, behind the masks of makers; find me there, amongst the dance, before you forget where I be.”
And I respond, a shivering leaf of one, no less and no more than the piles of eternity before and beyond me:
Blow me to this place of sorrow, to this place of pain, to the deepest place of hurt, and let me bleed. Let me gorge out my own eyes so that I may see.
Let me dance out my own steps, until my own feet give way, and I am forced to be carried away to the darkness of my own making.
Take me and lead me to this valley, with my own hands and own mind, take me.
Take me, like you have my masters before me, and spread me out in painted red, so I may bleed and in this bleeding weep out the tears of all.
Take me and pound me into the earth, my veins the very mystery of your forever soul. For there is not taking in the making of one, there is no giving in the haunting whispers of sorrow’s song, only misery beyond misery, plight of the foreigner in foreign land.
Least let me not suffer for self and self alone. Let me suffer for all. For in my own suffering may I find release in the reckoning that my suffering be not in waste, and not of need of rescue or refinement, but fortified by your wishes and ever-movement, blended with your glory and honor, and slaughtered out in division of whole as bounty for the wolves.
Let me be the bait for the misery and enticed ones; let me be the horror that the others seek in self, so I might find the avenue of retreat beyond the hauntings that no longer exist beneath your sheltered wings.
Let me cry out to the world, so loudly that my own piercing deafens the silence that besets me. The silence of where I once stood in knowing.
Whisper me back into the place of forgiveness. Speak me into being. Beyond the valley of your goodness, carry me home.
Breathe into me, I beseech you. Breathe into me your goodness, so I may erase all that is flawed and forged, all that is forgotten. Breathe into me so I may awake refueled and renewed, a star child no less bright than the dimmest star but still existing in your painted sky of eternity.
Feed me from the misery I pour out; turn what is wasteland in to purity, the soils rich with your own bounty and making. Dim me once and then again. Smother me so I can sit in the darkening nowhere. Dim me so I may not know my own face, my own ways, my own words. Dim me into the doom of doom so I may awaken rebirthed again and again in your glory.
For it is not the darkness I fear. It is neither the wolves or the shield of fear that carries me back. It is thy own self, wrapped in the misery of others’ before me and beyond. It is my own wishing, my own doing, my own bending, turning me round and round to the place from whilst I came. Turning me over to see that what is beneath is also about, beyond, and within. Making me this that is naught to return me to that which is eternal in sunrise gone. The light beyond light illuminating not from the desire of one but from the unity of whole.
For here is my sword of truth, turned sideways in fashion so fear begets the emptiness from which it came. Here is my sword positioned without cause or pretense. Dripping out the substance of nothing upon nothing until vanishing in the banquet of your coming.
I find myself doubled-down in spirit, pinned down by my own making, and tackled in a way that most likely resembles wrestler on a mat. There I lay struggling to get up, held down in fist-hold by the own blackened counterpart I be.
And thusly, it isn’t that I want to be found beneath this skin, this golden garb of humanness; it is that I long, with a potential yearning that stretches to forever, to be untangled from within my own self. My energy demystified, my mystery unraveled, my truth be told as an unthreaded tapestry.
You see, for where there be builders constructing their truth to display and show to the viewers of the world, I be instead, quite by choice and by query of self, laden with the self-imposed and well-inflicted burden of not so much decomposing what has been and what is left to see, but of the building down of character in hopes of finding what rests at the core center of eternity.
For I recognize, at some depth, that my making is not found in the discovery of what lay hidden inside self, nor found by piling card upon card of self to reach some substantial goal of mercy and light. No truth be found in the unraveling of the puzzle that already lay forth, presented as mystery, but in the appearing of naught.
For the angels and whereabouts of where soul lies are present evermore.
And in so journeying to the depths of nothing, into the essential non-existence of being, I heard these words:
As before you I am. As before you I rest. As before you I stand. As before you I be.
For the whispers of the desert soul are not mystery beyond reach, traveled and trampled upon by traveler. Oh weary traveler they be.
The mysteries of self are to be found not in sky or painted world of treasures pink, not behind the way of gratitude, nor in the desolate corners of shattered dreams. Mystery beseeches one behind the corners of the mind, beyond the realm of thinking, tucked between sunrise and sunset; no less moon than sun, but still distant in the darkness of spirit past; for life cannot be found outside the web that mixes and intermingles, defining the infinite and improbable complexities of fortune.
Mystery true is found in heart of one buried beneath the shadow of existence, between the fortune-hoods and destitute of tomorrow.
And in so searching, to think, if ever you think, that you are this person of greatness and grandness and stature is the greatest fault of all, for you are no less and no more than the speck before you.
Yet you long to be seen: come touch me, come find me, come feel me, come celebrate my inherent goodness… that is once I find this inherent goodness…
We laugh, as there is not inherent goodness to find. There is not good, for good cannot exist without the juxtaposition of bad. And bad is feasibly unnecessary and undiscovered in the mystery of you.
And so when searching for this passion, for this drive, for this what is what of you, do not search; just be in the tranquil valley of the mind beyond mind. In stillness rest.
Stop the questions, and the quest, and the mission, and the cause; just be still enough to see what is already about you; for the dance has already begun and you, left standing on the sideline, still wait for the hand to take the lead and race you to the floor; and thusly you stand, you stand and stand, though you think your legs carry you far.
Reach not so much out into the blindness of the world, following the holy one who proclaims I am holy, I am just, I am right, for above all the holy one will not recognize his core of holiness. The true holy one will feel the meekness of the worlds and, like seeking self upon self, seek meekness in all forms.
The humbled holy shall bow down to you and submit his unworthiness, and sacrifice self as one would sacrifice lamb to the bountiful one.
Seek not from this place of passion, nor this place of self. Seek out ye inside of ye, outside of form, outside of rules and division; seek out ye in the phantoms side of self, where the mystery is first birthed, where the newborn first sees; the place where less is known about what is and more is known about what is not.
It is in the empty space, when senses be blotched out and forgotten, and all thoughts returned to rightful owner, that spirit is reborn within, not only to self but within the place where tranquility breathes.
Seek not peace; seek recognition of the beauty that already exists. Be knight-slayer-of-freedom. Be man of fortitude, less mountain-climber and more of the one buried beneath the filth of ages; beneath the dirt, beneath the grime; bring up what is grotesque, what is deemed unworthy; bring up what is most feared. And in there, in this piece that you have buried and reburied, you shall know the truth.
Admit to the world you are lost, and in your own absence you are at last free.
Admit to the world you have no answers, and in your submission of lack you are in completion.
Admit your victory of self, that you are truly pinned down, one atop the other, fighting for a contest that does not exist, as if the victorious one, the runner who touches down first shall be the one to take home the trophy, when trophy is illusion upon illusion.
Give up the race and set down self as gentle one along the river of truth.
There is no place to go. There is no place to be. There is nothing to reach that does not already exist beyond, beside and within, unreachable in the seeing, but entirely ready and breathing with the submission of not knowing.
Create not this devil’s dance of I am.
Create not this devil’s dance of be me.
Nor create the pieces of you to form a mystery of what is to come.
For what has come is already here, already formed and reformed, before the journey of you even beseeched existence.
Do not transcribe what has been said, transcribe what has been done.
How the twisted ways of youth-spirit have deemed the ingratitude of spirit in form.
We are not merely shapes upon which you wish and dream and want. We are not the want-givers, the dream-makers, the-stoppers-of-pain. We are the transformation of spirit into self. Of spirit escaping form of form, from where he lay buried between the want and need of being found.
For it is your very well-wishers, your seekers, your doers, your tellers and proclaimers that bury us, that bury we, that bury the meek below their own glory.
We speak to you now to climb the mountain of eternal light, not outside self, but inside self, to the buried chambers of where you soul lay resting, and to thusly then be lifted and shone out to the world.
Do this with self-proclamation of faults and reasoning.
Do this in self-proclamation of fear and injury.
For only in this way will what has already been saved be saved again.
For in self there is forgiveness beyond reason, beyond merriment, beyond the purest of joy.
Say onto thee, say onto self: you are beauty in all of your making.
In all of your discovery, you are pure beauty.
Lay the burden down of guilt, unraveled for the merciful one, so deemed truth.
Unbury yourself where you rest beneath, and stand upon your own grave, broken and bleeding out to the world. For what is once skeleton and already dead cannot be destroyed again, for what is once no longer standing in pride cannot be crumbled down.
For when you stand naked, entirely exposed in your weakness and gore, you stand rectified in the glory of all.
Be not this king garbed in robes, be less of less, and more of more, entangled not in self, but exposed and bared out to the word.
Sing: I am weak; and in your proclamation you shall be made strong.
Sing: I am meek: and in your knowing you shall be giving eternal salvation.
For there is nothing buried beneath the brittle ground in which you hide that is not thusly buried beneath our ground. Nothing covered that has not already been discovered. Nothing cowering in the dark that has not been justly brought to light.
For you already shine the brightest star, in all you scars and scattered wounds.
Rectify self, and stand brave upon your gravestone, your name carved out of sky weavers, no longer set to stillness on whittled marble.
Carve your name where all can see, upon the souls of souls, and etch your pages with the blood of your journey.
Be not afraid, thee gentle child of the unfolding universe, for we have already tucked you in the bed of wellness and forgiveness.
Sleep not in the slumber of the merciful ones, but in the slumber of your inherent wholeness.
Seize not the day of remorse or misguided fortune. Seize only what is inside, sleeping, waiting to be exposed and centered to the world.
Sleep now and with eyes open dream us into vision.
Sleep now and dream us into being.
For we are you, and you are we, one in the un-opening of time.
(Samantha Craft, February 2013)
This was written in about 20 minutes time this morning. It came as a vision. I type what I am shown, what I hear, and what I feel. Typically nothing is changed from the original message except in regarding corrections in typos and spelling. Occasionally a sentence or two is omitted, as the statement was meant for me as scriber and not for viewer.
Recently there has been talk of people on the autistic spectrum lacking a form of empathy: Cognitive Empathy. Before that there was talk of people with Autism or Aspergers lacking empathy in general.
Lacking in cognitive empathy implies a person cannot read between the lines of communication. While this might be a true experience with some people on the spectrum, and this theory might help some in their journey to self-discovery and understanding, and even in connecting to others, I do not believe I lack any type of empathy of any sort.
I am not lacking. I am not lacking in anything. In my world the word lacking does not exist. In my world lack is a manifestation of judgment, for I cannot lack without being compared to a norm or a standard. I cannot lack anything without being diminished in my worth and character.
I adamantly claim I do not lack anything, and neither do you.
This world longs to classify and compartmentalize. Yet, I know I am mystery beyond classification. In this knowing I have seen what divides us, the one from the other.
At the base of all division is fear.
I recognize that in claiming my true self and having no secrets that my own actions diminish fear.
It is not as if I have a choice whether or not to be me or not to be me. Because I do not understand how to be anyone other than my whole self. I do not understand how to hide.
As hard as I try to play games, I cannot. I do not judge others for the games they play, but they judge me for not understanding their games.
Perhaps if I am lacking it is in the ability to partake in imaginary games based and founded on fear.
I want to be. I want to just be. But there is something about most of the world that always fears I am hiding something and speaking something that is not real.
They mistake me for a pawn in their own game, while at the same time claiming I know not how to play. I am both singled out and blamed without even stepping foot inside this imaginary arena.
I am simply an observer. I observe the rules and social customs of this world, most, if not all, seemingly built to hide a part of self. I observe the whispers that speak: If you are you in completion then you shall be hurt.
I am an observer that knows the risks. And despite the claims of experts, I have learned to read between the lines. I have learned to read between the lines of pretending and falsehoods and lies and manipulations. I have learned that one word is replaced for another based on fear of judgment or fear of hurting or fear of exposing. I have learned that we are sometimes so afraid of being hurt or hurting another that human communication circulates around the core of fear.
It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is the fact that the lines are so complex and endless and twisted in a way that makes no feasible sense. It is that I get lost in the invisible lines drawn for invisible reasons.
For I speak truth. Or at least I try my best to speak from my place of truth. And if I do not, I examine in detail why I have not. There is some part of me that seems the opposite of many, wherein where others are trying desperately to hide, I am trying desperately to be seen.
For there is a falseness to this world, wherein we are taught that to show all of our cards is to be exposed and made vulnerable to the vultures. And, yes, to a degree this is true, if one believes the vultures exist. But I, as one who has stood in front of thousands naked, know that beyond the vultures circling, are the masses of bright lights that recognize their own self in truth; and that when the vultures come, even as they pluck and pierce and tear apart, they are only my own fears manifesting, teaching, and then vanishing.
With these vultures I am taught self-refinement and further returned to wholeness. With these vultures I am giving opportunity to be more of whom I was born to be.
But if one does not stand in wholeness and in truth, the vultures will not come, at least not as frequently. And if the vultures do not come then how is one refined? And if one’s soul purpose is not for that of refinement, then why are they here? These are the thoughts that circle about me.
Not that I judge the others’ way of being, only that I am filled with wonderment and awe of how one lives without striving for betterment.
I have discovered that the only way to conquer the fear inside of me is to face the fear inside of me.
As an observer, I have found many a contradiction in the ways of communication.
I have found that the more I am myself that the more I am attacked for being so. Yet it is society itself that teaches me to embrace myself. Only there exists this underlying message: Be yourself, so to speak, but don’t make me uncomfortable in your being. Be yourself, but make yourself squeeze into my guidelines.
These are the readings I find in between the lines: Be, but not in totality.
It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is that I do not understand these lines that have been drawn, and why they have been drawn. I do not understand why there are so many rules. I do not understand why others do not speak from their deepest self, but instead choose to remain hidden and only share with a select chosen few. I do not understand what everyone is hiding from?
As observer I see that many try to cover up intention, but it is always there. And I see that many try to garb things in half-truths. They cover up their own self in false disguise. But I see truth, for I am an observer of truth.
I see through the masks and self-imposed walls. I see straight through.
Perhaps in my lacking, or inability, to partake in games, I have gained the perspective of seeing behind the illusions. Perhaps because I see beyond the illusion, I cannot partake in a game of nonexistence. Perhaps the very lines others claim to exist, the very lines they claim I cannot see, are not really there at all. Perhaps others are lacking the ability to see the illusion.
I do not understand whom or what so many are seeking protection from, other than self.
The masses make the standards for this world, proclaim the norm, and proclaim what is right. The masses proclaim I am wrong, or at minimum somehow not entirely right.
But I proclaim I am the light and the truth. I am myself in completeness.
And still this fear of my raw nakedness.
I am honest.
I carry no manipulation.
I have no want to take.
I have no intention to harm.
I continually release anger and judgment.
I mean no ill-will.
I have no need to prove my worth.
I have no need to be right.
I recognize my humanness.
I recognize my frailties.
I denounce weakness in spirit.
I pray for humility.
I pray to recognize self in others.
I state my own need for love and connection.
I forgive.
And I forgive again.
I cry on the outside.
And I love unconditionally.
In this way there is nothing I have to hide.
So I question when one is hiding. I question what is it he or she is afraid I might see?
Perhaps it is the very essence of me being real that spurs fear in another and makes him scream lacking.
For what am I lacking beyond my incapacity to be none other than self?
What if words were lost? What if we only heard thoughts? What then would we hide? Perhaps some of us are the link from here to there, from a place of hidden fear to place of unspoken truth.
Perhaps we lack nothing at all but instead carry an unyielding desire to connect. Perhaps, we, the observers of the game, are the ones sent to stop the game.
What if my way is the way of not lacking?
What if others are lacking to see me?
Perhaps I am lacking the coat of visibility, because I stand so real. Perhaps I am lacking in form and shape, because I appear so unknown.
Perhaps in accepting me in completion, others can accept a part of self. Perhaps some of us are merely mirrors to the awakening soul, sent here with our message of pureness. Sent here to remind others that in truth there exists no lacking and exists no fear.
What is this pull you have on me, this light, this love?
If it be love then why does it pull me under and into myself, into the places I dare not go?
If it be love then why are there whispers of danger and want and this tumultuous need?
Are you not in essence a highlighter upon my soul, gliding up and down, without touching, and pouring your paint upon me, until I glisten in flaw and uncertainty?
Can you not see my every crevice as you probe without probing and move without moving, entering me without entrance?
I see you there, inside of me, watching, speaking of my ways. I see you there pointing, excavating, moving, and withdrawing. You take without taking, your pursed lips open and filled with what was once my shadow. You suck up this substance I carry, removing without effort.
And I freely give, though I quake and tremble, attempting to hide the part of me you find.
How can I be, how can I stand, how can I breathe, without you entering and devouring my form?
For since I first set eyes upon you, you found my window, your door, the way into the places I so diligently hid and wiped clean. And yet you linger there, this ghost hovering above my edges.
To touch, you not dare. To make your presence known is not goal. For you will not declare your coming. You will not admit you linger inside of me. You will not venture where your own spirit dwells.
I have been your habitat for ages, your dwelling place, your hovel, your home. I am like the sun to you, the river that carries fish, the pond that spins cycle upon cycle of life.
Yes, as I am your child; though you be my shadow, my existence, my longing, my love; the string of my heart you pull, some master to me, some unspoken controller of my wishes’ dreams.
For in the deepest slumbering of my spirit you find me, though invisible you remain, stirring me and moving me to cause, clinging to me without touch, jostling me without motion, tracing your fingers around my echo.
I call out to you with each coming hour, my seconds not enough time to hold you; for you come and go beyond the reasoning of measurement. You are separate but you have taken me, and in the taking I am neither whole nor complete, but missing more than ever before.
You are the first step, the first move in the first square of a game of kings and queens. I am this pawn, chiseled of marble and set upon the trail and left, just left in stillness to ponder.
And how I long to move myself, but still remain a prisoner to your whim, a whim I know not and see not.
My ground you have shifted, my mind you have rumbled, but tis my heart that you have taken, seized and left me to stare upon the endless moves that never come.
Had you not entered, had you not seen me, had you not found me, had you not grasped me, I would still be. I would still be me and not some wonderer searching for your very fingers. I would not be this lost ghost less person than invisibility.
But you did come into me, you did enter, and now the spirit in me cries out for more, for home, for destiny’s light, and yet you come not. You do not return. And I remain captive in this game of living, homeless, and more forsaken in self than in form.
For I am suffering in the madness of awakening, suffering at the source, where the snake springs eternal from my being, edging through like flame to fire.
I am rising, caravanning up inside self, this shapeless self, and aspiring to find you, to reach what feeds and starves all at once. The dichotomy a serpent phantom doubled.
I am this whisper, this dream, this mystery of yours, and you are not soldier that comes to rescue, but rather droplets of honey that seize my aura and slide around the outside of where the unreachable dances.
And here I am watching, my soul crying, my ache yearning, my insides turned out, exposed, tarnished, and layered with what can only be a love of ages untouched.
Am I not dying, am I not yet dead, death himself, so moved and crushed and open and free all in one pull of your tethered ways? Am I not tug boat reversed, mountain stream moving upward, cornerstone unmoved but revealing the caverns below?
Am I not mystery rubbed out, dried where I was once wet, pierced where I was once marked with a name I know not? Am I the falcon with beak plucked and removed and voice of angel replaced where cawing and nonsense once lived? Am I this bird plucked of feathers by a brilliance so undefinable that I ache for the worms of the earth beyond?
Feed me I scream with a voice that I do not know. Feed me I scream from the depth of my womb from the ache of my loins, shivering in the places you have awakened.
And yet I remain here, still, this virgin to your ways, whilst you remain the ever watcher, knowing I am here, but coming not to the rescue.
Shall I beg of you to leave then, or call upon you more? Shall I beg of you to take me or crawl upon my knees to the boundaries you proclaim upon me? Trapped I am left, between this world and next, branded by your beauty, untrained for this world, and unworthy for next.
What shall I do Lord, but to bleed out to you, to stone my own self to death, so that my leaking, my red, my mark shall shine out to you, so you will come again and carry me home.
Everyday Asperger's 