Learning...to leave myself behind

Close your eyes and look at everything around you. Do you not see the
creases of palms extended out around you? Some large, some small, some
soft and delicate and others with coarse edges of history written on
finger tips. Each one, hand after hand with just the first of knuckles
bent ready to hold anything placed upon its dipped palm. What will you put
there? A bit of flesh? A bit of spirit? The core of soul? Or will it be
the vibrations of heart in one and the sleepers slack of flesh draped
across the other? Tell me what will you do with all these hands?


Eyes open and logic locked away did you see one hands fingers spread free?
Did you see the flow of pride slip between the fingers like droplets of
gold? Hitting the ground like diamond chips so frail the shattered in
glittered dust around feet that would be cut at a step of its pain of
losing such? Blood streams heated in disappointment followed as you beg to
sweep it in the brush of hair as You beg to feel the cup of fingers again?
You see that its not their blood you clean but your own, and it scares
you. You scream and curl back into brick walls made of crystal and a roof
of glass.


Close your eyes to realize that those hands are still there. Empty they
are weighted down and tired. Will you offer something to bring back their
strength? Did you notice feet made of stone not moving, never moving,
planted firm like the three of knowledge and eternal life. Did you see
there is no lock on the glass roof you always look out of and the beauty
outside of those perfection of crystal walls? You don't have to do
anything but stand, and take one of those hands. Some are aging, but yet
not moving, like mountains of love with gifted belief in you. Why have you
not shown them?


Eyes open and you scream. You see the muck of oiled claws leaving dirty
gashes around your arm when you reach out. Just a quick lifted lid of
clear light steel of self worth that you just can't lift. What hurts you
so? Do you not notice blacken talons of your own hand? Drowning from the
cup you fill just to allow the bottomless base tell you its not enough.
Losing self in others ideas that mean nothing to you. Laugh at self
destruction of melting pride as if it will be formed again under the heat.
Weep at your own art, that you continue to hang in the corners of your
cell.


Close your eyes seeing the reality of small voices vengeance only burning
acid words of what you taught them. Stand up you scream as muscles ache in
flex and you take the first hand beside you. The box turned into
shimmering sand that was cool and nice against your feet. It hurt, to
speak with skin peeled away by a blade taken for a still up turn palm.
They had all the tools to find yourself, if you wished to use them. For
your touch can only find the real person inside. They are there. Only now,
do I see.

Conversation with myself-2009