A power drill in my mind, building castles out of my thoughts.
The flesh is hungry, arms stretching out, and aspiring, planning, building highways
A plate with sweet fruits at my nose, my thought, my feeling
My ego weaving blankets out of moments and impulses, and they will vanish in a sewer
The flesh is dead, the shell is empty.
I can’t hide on the moon, on the couch, in the night, in sweets,
in the sunset, under my blanket, in nothingness or at the end of the world.
I have to get out and turn around. I’m broken, I can’t repair myself.
The high heels sink in the dirt. I stumble and the dress is no longer pink, but mud-colored
I fall on my knees and huddle as if the mud is a womb. I have to return to the light.
He must become greater, I must become less
I wake up to the sound of silence
And the song of a lark
The air tickles my cheeks
I open my eyes and see
A never-ending river of clear water
My feet hit something
Handcuffs on the ground
I meet a man, who is sitting on a rock
I ask him “Do you know whose those chains are?
“They’re yours” he answers, “Do you want them back?”
I shake my head
“Do you have faith?” He asks
He looks at the horizon
“All things are possible for Father”, he says
He arises and walks towards me
Thank you Alan 🙂