Asked to intervene,
tertiary mediator to the physical — spiritual plains.
Removing the bondage,
tethered stitching of protective belief.
Guard against the hungry wolves,
drooling over — leftovers bequeathed by the window’s soul.
Protection against the legality of evildoers,
scratching another from spectrums broader.
It is done — write as the wing — left as it was.
Follow the smoke — find your way home.
We dance — singing to all past, present and future psalms.
Take our hand — into the unknown — forever yours,
back whence we came.
~Ani Po
Thank you for holding this sacred space at KTHT. Thank you Diana C., Spyder. and May More.
Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.
Perceptually different are the varying thoughts of how it used to be. One-sided is the stories tale — giving a young lad everything they needed, being there for every turn as the car rolled off the highway.
A flip of the coin — tales are telling of another side. Absent was the one leaving a child alone with a flame and combustibles — swallowed temperament as volatile as the burning winds.
A flip of the coin — leaving knives as sharp as a sword — severing thumbs and tearing into the flesh of past chapters of broken wings. Then to comfort the wounded soul with fiery winds of burning words cutting through to silenced dreams — left alone was the young one, mastering the elements of Shangri-la.
Recounting the time — entering the skeleton-filled closet of forbidden truths — mastering the art of fabricated twisted stories. One after the other — lie to cover up the one before — just as the one taught. And it made him fucking proud.
Vomiting regurgitated thought — sharing to this page — as guilt and fear bring us back to broken arms. Not shocked — opening the Webster defining words — there at the center of the narcissism was a picture of the one.
Alone is the one — by his own doing — with greatest fear of coming to fruition. He remains alone — rotting in his flesh of misery — buried in his life of lies and sworn to take them to the grave.
Fleeing time — ticking clock — stubborn is the one wrapped in these words: “They’re dead to me.” Now, with two remaining, the one chases one of them out of the house of Ivan Illych — last breath emanant as the pain in Tolstoy’s chest greatens with heart-breaking thoughts of how it could have been.
The end is near — time will tell — uncertain are the children of the one who taught them how not to be — greater are they for learning how to be. Trapped forever — pain and suffering as the mystery of misery pools in a toxic wasteland.
One last flip of the coin , knowing it was a twisted tale , absent as it was. Merely a donor — a provider — doing his best as selfishly as one could. Yes, his heart was as big as the sun , hidden behind the ash of burning wildfires — started in the closets, hidden truths.
Radical Acceptance — all that remains.
~Ani Po
The One returns to the story — day after day — on a loop recorder, wishing for the torment to end — while my heart melts into Radical Acceptance of this person who doesn’t know how to be.
Sealing this wounded heart with tears flooding broken timelines — this chapter is closed — a flip of the coin.
Thank you Wry Welwood for sharing this prompt. Yes, it was something needing to come out. Much gratitude for Scrittura.
Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.
