That Is Born

Twilight slowly fades into the shadows of the night.
The will and ego disappear as spirit takes to flight.
Blind, the state of cultivation, nourishing potential
without sight. Potential isn't always right or good.

Sweet dreams in times that came before all time.
Lingering within unstructured cells within the mind.
Wisdom comes, where knowledge can't make way.
Deep, the dark of waters in the womb of life becoming.

Within the soothing rhythms of a heart that really loves.
There is no down below to reach for up above.
Not there, within the womb of life becoming.
One tiny seed that sought and found the egg.

And then the dive into a life divine.
Angel wings aflutter in the movements in the womb.
Pregnant thoughts of future swelling endlessly within.
Imagery - now lost, then found, within the cells of skin.

An ecstatic feel of rapture captured then.
Climaxing within, without an end.
'Tis then, the waiting ardently begins.
The aged wonder if it ever ends.

The day has come - a cyclic flow
of agony within the afterglow.
Experienced by mother and child as one.
More intimate than life within the sun.

More subtle, and yet just as real -
connections to the father that they feel.
War and death, imprisonment.
Wishes always left unmet within.

Needs reduced to less than mere survival.
Running in the hope of a revival somewhere else.
Pushing past the last defense of self.
Pressure rising, need left incomplete.

To run away again would be effete.
Back into a womb left incomplete.
Smothering, contained within
an atmosphere unbreathable to men.

And then the transformation.
Man into a serpent of the sea.
No atrophy that disagrees
with life's traumatic core.

To rise and fall, and swell again,
into the evermore. Competition,
swimming for his life. Alien, the deep
of all he feels in his projections.

Too focused on release to know the feel.
His dream of seeds would never be made real.
Too dark, and thus rejected, his reflections.
Too high and mighty, thoughts of just himself.

Thus twilight slowly faded into shadows of the night.
The will and ego taking power, despoiling the flight.
Blind, the state of cultivation, nourishing potential
without sight. Potential isn't always right or good.

Ethereal, the webs of love's forgiveness.
Blessing every child that is born.
Warm, the cherished unity of arms
that hold us still, within the womb
of hearts in unity...

? Michaelette ?

10/5/2003
Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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