Rain, Mist Cover to hide in
Cries, Pleas to heaven
Witnessed through glass
A muffled wildness
Like a beating heart
Inside a bell jar.
The edge of the prayer bowl is lined with felt.
All is contained
In a gentle, loving prison.
If, as Antoinette suggests, the soul is held between the exhale and the pursuant inhalation
It too is captive.
Again the silken tether holds all in place…
Breath by breath,
Soul by Self.
Is it more courageous to stay?
Trustingly awaiting a call to arms,
A path revealed
That will beckon and break the self-imposed exile.
Is the true self a fixed constant?
Does the truest self move with the pulse of life…
Threading it’s way around and through life’s inconsistencies,
Humanity’s unconsciousness and the
Death of Illusion?
What gentile force can be applied
To remove the filters between Self / Soul / Life?
For all my complaints, it is an arguably peaceful place.
A little too like death for my previous self to appreciate.
This, the muffled beat of my heart, the stillness of my soul,
This, I’m uncomfortable with…
As I have truly appreciated the value of conflict, impulse and debate.
Death in life
Is that transformation?
Does it have to take so long?
Am I to be truly cold before transformation is complete and I actively move In
Body and Soul and Self
On the same path
Smiling, if not quiet
May 29, 2010