I sought the world of in between.
Long and long, I struggled towards
its center. Even when it seemed
the very air I breathed would hold
me back with its extremity of bold
and yet luxurious extensions into
places never felt as real for long.
Even now, these hands must write
in what most call merely profusion -
passing by the underlying meaning
of it all - for still, they seek to quell
the injury and pain of storms too
great to yet be understood by intellect
unhinged from heart and soul.
Let us ease our way into this
We have loved and we have lost. We
have battled mighty tempests at a cost
to great to be repaid. Yet still I am, we
are - and still, a will (much greater than
just yours or mine alone, somehow
inclusive in this form and flesh and time),
insists that I must bring these words
into fruition within this mortal time and
space of being consciousness - and more,
just here, within this world of great emotion
(that ever must be joined within the touch of
each sensation of experience in flesh,
in yet another recreation of a consciousness
that overrides it all).
And here, I must confess of
the great peace
of mind I sometimes find - that comes with
every letter being formed into these words
of phrases that go on and on. And yet this
always means much more than peace to me -
for here, the grace of those angelic miracles,
finds its way to into mortality again.
Yet oh, those histories -
and extinct they've come to be. Christ
was born and died and risen; and yes,
his sprit still lives on; learning even from
the cache of great mistakes that each of
us has made. A vision rises, of a time
supposedly undone - when after forty
days and nights of naught but emptiness
within his very human frame, this Christ
we think we know absorbed and then
absolved the evil mankind still insists on
And yet the gist of stories
told in limited editions
of a bible published by that hierarchy
(composed of no more than the greatest of
divisions), came through to us this time, to edit
out the truth of this great myth in its complexity
of being. For even there (unnoticed by the many
for too long), within a desert storm we never knew
within experience, this Christ of all our legends
was truly born anew - just when he found a way
into acceptance of himself. Yes, he was and is this
god of goodness everyone so sought; and yes, he too,
contained a blind malevolence that sought no more
than just its fated destiny, in an acknowledgment
of what is deemed as power in our day and age.
And so, it still lives on, more powerful for every
Surely, each of us has felt
within the moments of the years we sought
a state of untold, pure illusions of perfection.
Ah, but then the tale goes on, for which
of us has ever really come to play the role
(in wholeness) that we're made to play as we
are growing into all that we were meant to be?
When what we really are still lies within a state
of great suspension (as always it must be) -
waiting, hoping, wishing (yet no longer patiently),
for its unfolding within mortal life and time
and these societies that seem to rule it all
by chance (and not much more that that).
Somehow it seems most fitting
(of all the many nights our mortal years
still bring) must be the night that this be born
into the words of reasoned understanding -
one that seeks and comes to know the spirit
which indwells in each of us. Separate
and yet inclusive; individual, yet so illusive -
reaching deep and high and wide, that
we might come to understand the realms
thought too invisible to ever come to be
an understanding way of life - all through
a feeling of so unutterably complete, that
seems to leave each time we try to capture
it, in its entirety.
Sweet and strong, the words
of poetry that
speak of passions living on in us. Yet still,
they seem to seek the height, without the
depth of utter being (which must somehow
include an alienation of inclusion). Ah, then,
the suicidal tendencies just seem to come
alive again, within some altered form of
human will, mutation of that blind belief
in death and ever-after of a void of nothingness -
there, awaiting one and all. (Or shall we try
again to choose between the heaven or
the hell born of no more than paradox of
intellect?) While even now, the angels and
the stars that shine within the night behold us
as the ultimate in healing - if only we
would seek - the wisdom comes.
Touch now, and feel this great
for it is real - more real than just one
bent of mind could ever hope to be or
bring into reality. Seek the world of
in between, and come to know its magic.
Embrace it as that one great love that
deep within you always have dreamed of.
Seek thus, and then discover yourself
living in its center. Hold your breath
in rhythmic counts that soothe - ever
knowing that this air you breathe is
only here to be your sustenance.
Let go, the many blind beliefs
long gone to dust, and come to face
destruction with your angel, standing
strong (yet still) - within this life of never-
ending grace and great endurance
that we humans have evolved ourselves
into. Even when it seems the very air
you breathe would hold you back in all
its germs of sick extremity - as bold
and yet luxurious extensions into places
never felt as real for long. Speak and
write and tell - we must go on. Even now,
when all the world seems lost in fear of
terrors and the feel of brutal and yet beatific
visions of invasion.
For even now, each word of
must bring deliverance from all the pain of
should have beens and ought to be's in us -
we, the children of this universe in actuality.
And even now, the many unheard voices
must be heard and understood. If not,
what is it that the birth and death of even
God himself could ever be about?
See it now, as each extremity must
reach again for its great other to
live on. Know it true, and love it all -
for love itself is why we must live on...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...