the yogi mentioned a journey of the interior
and I replied back, “The interior of what?”

she gently took my shaking hand in hers
she of earth, of camphire and the bronze age,
even before, of the dawn spinning its tapestry,
she turned my palm down so I could see
the soft sepia back of a hand that belonged
on someone ten years my junior

and then brought palm to sky again

“Look inward.”

so began the journey,

where sounds became my enemy
the creaking floor, the gust of wind
dust against the paneled door
the whisper of ghosts

all this had prevented me from entering

so I lay in fear that crept along my skin
and shook my body electric,
the slow sounds became a part of me
and I sank
into the blackness of my soul
where the bogeyman wore familial faces,
and the murmuring spectres
began to articulate

trudging through a scattered feast of shame
that I had been force feed, taken as
Sisyphean punishment for exhuming emotion
and then daring to adorn myself
in its perverse glory

the ether, lined with majestic azailias that
shone with grace in crystallized plum
shoots, mauve and grape lines that stung
the iris, blinding me, bending me humble,
rummy hands, slipping sticky flexion creases,
stole beneath fingernails, clung to flimsy hairs,
wreathing my wrists in bracelets of sorrow
fettering me to a lost child,

arrested, and my eyes grew large, praying
for light, and my breaths grew weak from the
heaviness of all I could not accept, muscles
atrophied, no movement, and the darkness

took me.

I languished there till there was nothing,
no absence of light, no circular balance,
no beginning or end, an empitness
to siphon every last jot and
crackle of softness till hope wore no clothes,
and acceptance was begotten.

my body jerked, as it does when sleep nudges
and you are unwilling, then the smell of lilies,
so faint I thought I was mad,
the fragrance of life indelible,

the tackiness of surrender, the gloom,
broke as dried wax, falling away in wisps
and I could, once again, hear a heartbeat
like echoes of vibrations spun in the zephyr.

I scurried beyond the lair of yesterday,
aflamed by a panted bogeyman whose
raggy breath dogged my shadow and
slithered along my spine,

as I half-dragged, half crawled in all directions,
shutting my eyes again,
to know, to be
the darkness was me,

I wailed and shrieked,
till my heart burst and
my throat,
my voice,
my hands and legs gave out,

“I FORGIVE, I Forgive, i forgive…”

and fell into a heap, like ragged clothes,
discarded and forgotten, bore down by
an erosion of scars and pain, baptized
in churning tears that revealed


and I realized, inexorbly, that this
is where
the journey begins.



Joined April 2008

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 2

Artist's Description

Journey of the soul, beginnings really, and a modest attempt at description

This piece will probably grow as time goes on.

Artwork Comments

  • markgb
  • kutkolors
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