The Chosen

There are those of us, it seems
through whom emotion streams
in never-ending waves of our endurance
and to each of us, the chosen few
a time when we cry out
wanting nothing more than just to stop
these rushing streams
that turn into a living agony
at just a whim

and then we reach
too far, too deep
to find the source of all these feelings
that are coursing through our veins
while in primal rhythm, drums resound
until we touch the ground of all we are

Deep and dark and primitive
stretching for infinitives
we reach and find
a path that's seldom used
in this, the time of heart's abuse
that leads right through
an ancient, ever-living forest
trees towering o'er hours
and just holding up the sky

Oh, that we might once, just once
express the feel of all that moves us
through this flesh into reality
but there, a hill is rising
darker still, the opening of a cave
where primal rage exists in fact
yet safely out of bounds
lest the crowds of collectivity
discover all the power
of this primal empathy
and use it for their ill-begotten ends
but this, the angels never will allow

Listen! hear the sounds
at base, a savage beauty
moving round and round
and up and down
yet here the path proceeds
and so must we
gathering together fear
to shield us in this
our hour of mystery

never lacking anything
that we might truly need
and so we dare to enter
naked as a babe newborn
to circle round the center
where a fire leaps and dances
enchanting in its golden orange
and brilliant symmetry

Can we withstand this fire's heat?
We stand, somehow suspended
and barely out of reach
as this awesome fire of great desire
molds our fearsome shield
into the courage to go on
until we take another step

and echoes billow out
in eerie tones of a lament
for there beneath the threshold of all rage
lies grief untold and every sorrow
never ridden out
as nightmare black, the steeds stampede
through endless hours of primal need
that lacked no more
than simply our expression

A tear, a sigh, or softly sung
a lullaby that eases every strain
as slowly, surely sorrow streams
back into this living realm of dreams
releasing pain from its imprisonment
and the fire leaps and dances
while the wild stallion dances
this time the whitest white on light
that suffuses every living thing
with hues of starlit gleaming

and we, the chosen few
through whom these never-ending feelings stream
somehow become the theme
of this dream within a dream
as starlight now begins to sing in joy unbound
for at the very center of the feel of everything
a miracle is found
as angelic trumpets sound in victory

for yet another spirit seeking
finds that love still lives
and wills this music to go on
for all eternity . . .

? Michaelette ?

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