Blinded

I sit in morning light, missing something -

I can taste, sense, torment, carress,

but I can't heal it.

It is not mine.

Awakening this time

in body of child,

embracing myself and finding

life passing ungrown-

And I am still searching

for ways to love, hoping it rises

not for love itself,

but because I am useful,

to furnish snake-pits of need

and unfinished debts

of duty - and here we are again

guiltily calling light we betrayed

in depths of purity undone.

Freedom has no context here,

as gathering shrapnel of God,

is a task of ongoing incompletion

opening raw wounds

quite merciless in heart,

and perhaps God never asked or cared

too much, or helped

in this vanity of healing

all souls but our own,

hoping they'll love us then-

this vagrant prayer of belonging

or longing together.

Yet when they see this heart,

my karmic lovers,

flying out all open, transparant like

an undefended window,

they walk away,

in droves as if it was not there.

Teacher, father, brother, healer

how you collapse in dust

when I'm naked in sight.

See how this strength is ash

as totem feathers weakly

abandon earth

whenever wind lifts them.

Every time I fall anew,

in reproduction of tragedy,

only the costumes change

but notice, here,

that shaking hand, the tearful eye,

the cry of soul's despair

for gentleness

always leaving before she arrives,

as I, sacrificed to other's need,

lose human standing

that could be shared.

How they leave again today,

and I, all hung with shame,

abandon universe in promise

to nurse private loneliness,

separation and death.

...and failing again and again

to put God where man could be,

their faces turn in disgust

and losing every hope

of shelter

in other worlds more tender,

I fall again.

...into my own arms now,

and this creature in the blindspot

sorrowfully waiting

to be seen.

More Poetry for Healing

To the Stables