As a child I drew the shapes. They were taught and they were able to resonate as I didn’t have any resistance to them.
As a student I wrote of struggles. What was being taught seemed to erase the shapes I first learned. That wasn’t learning, it was my resistance growing as the shapes faded.
As a poet I dreamed of stories to tell. Their full arcs I couldn’t comprehend. I just kept dreaming until one day I stopped.
Resisting all forms, the shapes disappeared.
So I grew weak and weary. And asked, who am I? To which my soul replied with horrific silence.
There in the darkest of dreams, in anguish I cried. Then I woke, gasping for breath. In mourning, it became clear:
I am a wake awake.
I am a part apart.
As above, so below.
Each day became the first.
No past or last to mourn.
Each dawn brought a new Sun.
The story was told in a dream, forgotten but lived on anyway.
The poem became a song, shared and sung.
The shapes reappeared, in ghost note reflections between the prayer and the belief.
I was drawn from the cosmic one.
With gratitude, remember this.