for david whyte
I am too frail.
in silence it may be
that I am treasured.
but, as yet I cannot walk alone.
my essence neither is
the candle flame's
soft flickerings, nor
is it the flitting moth’s
sweet flight - but is occasionally
illuminated within their whispered
my present burnt into amethyst
upon my fingertips
by my past’s pure incomprehension
of the flame’s searing cognition.
in translucent layers I unmask myself -
my silent intuition
in wordless discourse with my soul
burning my rawest flesh.
with the questions
that never had forsaken me.
within my bones
the ancient wisdom surviving -
carving a path a foundation
forged in anguish
suffused with ignorance
leading to the world.
where I could return from my own exile.
walking on my own. walking towards love.
arriving to where all is absolutely - and unapologetically itself.
and was only waiting, waiting, for this my restoration.