Ascension

I find myself
reflected in your eyes and a calm washes over me.
The town crier calls: "It's Now-o-clock and all is well."
You're seeing me as love now
Don't take that mirror away!
Don't snatch that gift from me!
Don't push me to the edge of no reflection!
How will I find myself then,
if no one sees me as love?
I've been to that edge - not again, not that edge.
There's pain there at the meeting place,
the precipice of solid ground and the nothingness of ether.
Each wooing the other the way day and night do.
Night - trying to dark up the light.
Silly dark, you'll no longer be if you woo the light.
Do you really wish for shades of gray?

(somewhere the Whispers speak...)
Your beauty is in your contrast.
Only in the presence of your darkness can the light be acknowledged - live it up.
Yes, there is pain there, but blending into gray won't take it away.
At the edge of nothingness
the only use for solid ground is as a springboard
to leap up into space & meet your evaporation
trusting the cycle and the precipitation to come.
But first you must conquer the beast of fear.
And don't be fooled into thinking you don't it is the only way.

Oh mighty monster, Oh source of pain - Oh fear of fear itself
Fear of nothingness, fear of love loss.
What homage must I pay? What sacrifice to make - to release myself of you?

And from out of the bowels of fear,
escorted by the vulgar stench of utmost truth
comes the unbitten apple as ever Eve did see.
Inscribed upon it in golden letters:
Try again, Love again, Leap!
Thus earning her mighty title by serving up the seemingly impossible,
knowing full well the terror it accompanies.

(to the Whispers)
Who are you to say: „leap into that nothingness?
What do you know of love lost again and again and again?‰
Leap, Nay! I prefer the somethingness of isolation,
the company and comfort of my broken heart with all its longing and predictability.
I pass the cup, this garden of Getsemane can not be mine.

(the Whispers reply)
Think on this: The edge is universal,
FEAR IS FEAR IS FEAR IS FEAR
The stories change but the edge remains the same for all.
Who are we you ask? We are the voices of the evaporated,
the husk of the acorn that held what is now the mighty oak.
The chrysalis of the caterpillar which released its need for ground
and received the multicolored wings of flight.
We are the afterthoughts of those who screamed as they leapt
and now laugh with gratitude for all they've gained
and cry with compassion for those standing at the edge...
to TRUST.

4/4/99

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