restoration
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
sensual dancing.

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.