Mysteries

A general sense of discontent
was left just hanging in the air
surrounding everyon
within that place.
Disgruntlement was evident
as if that very space
were so unhappy that
it wished that it could
scream itself aloud.

Emotions, ill-repressed,
were hovering in corners,
hiding under desks and in the vents
that ought to freshen up the air.
At times, she heard a silent sigh,
so loud it seemed the walls
would simply open up and cry.

And there they were - the automatons -
pretending not to have a clue
of the depth of all they felt into
that space, that place, the time
that they so fully occupied
with the very particles
of their disclosures/

They strapped the angel
to a chair, electrically enhanced,
to try to make her dance in tune
with antiquated runes whose tone was flat;
but as she tried to live their alibis,
in place of all the many truths she’d learned,
her skin begin to burn as muscles spasmed,
and shook her frame so violently, she wept;
even as a scream was held in secret isolation,
incubating, waiting, nourishing, awaiting
a coming day of imminent release.

Memories of times before all time
built into a daze of pain that blocked
the path of true perception she had held,
and just where all the grace of love had dwelt,
a void that felt no more than just the numb
that icy climbs of heartless mind will bring,
chambered off the heart of hearts
from this cold place of mortal inability;
even as a fiery heat found fuel to be burned.

And so she burned for days
(or was it weeks and months unending?)
suspended there, without the strength to move;
fighting for the dignity of her integrity,
refusing to give in or to give out.
Rigidly, she laid within a statue-like repose,
frozen in the moment, just like them;
but from the stem of all she was
a heat of spirit spoke its warmth
without a single word,
and tiny streams began to work
their way throughout her form again,
stopping at each blockage and each bruise,
massaging gently, lovingly – each and every cell
that swelled with an immensity of painful interludes;
as spirit moved back into form
the ground of all enlightenment.

So she flew, as only angels can
into a realm that many never come to apprehend,
and strove to understand the gist of this -
another strain and type of man’s experience -
engineered in drawing rooms
without an ounce of creativity,
following prefabricated rules
that never worked themselves aright,
even when they named and thus intoned
uncaring terms of rules and terms
of their legality in action.

Feelings bled through channels long forgotten
(remission, after all, is only temporarily available
and the measurement of incremental spans of time
has been set back by the intensity of mankind’s
rude and crude, unaltered themes of death)
and all that was begotten by the word began to reel
within this feel of all it ever truly meant to be
just that – to be.

She lived yet once again
(in more than any memory could speak)
those ancient days of earth and air and fire,
when the moisture captured by the earth
nurtured all of life into distinctive shapes
and forms of beauty, opening
so freely into all infinity,
that days and nights unmeasured
spent themselves within renewal,
without a sense of time or timelessness;
and began to mend the many wounds
that had kept her in suspension far too long.

She saw them all here -
those that chose the route of will and power,
who thought themselves the master
of the hours of their lives,
dwindling in particles of insignificance,
like grains of sand so easily demolished,
pressing here and there and clinging;
but forced by greater power
than they ever could invoke
to move beneath, within
a greater undertow of strength
that waves itself through oceans of eternity.

While further yet, she traveled on,
intuiting an answer waiting
just beyond the bend and bent of minds,
that only find divisionary tactics to apply
to the magnificence of each experience of life;
where a single blade of grass becomes it all -
not by will, or mind, or powered tactics -
but merely by believing in the strength
of its existence in a greater continuity
submitting for a moment
when a foot falls hard to earth,
but always re-arising
in full meaning and the worth
of roots that grow so deep,
man cannot keep its presence down.

So she floated, recognizing
every single, simple, living thing
as a string of life that plays itself in being;
and so she healed
so much more than just herself alone,
for the harmony of just this tone abounded,
awakening the world again
in healing mysteries . . .

? Michaelette ?

2/22/2001
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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