Kindling

I rise, I rise 

from the black and white amalgamation of ashes - mine and yours.

The pain is still here, as fierce and brutal as before 

but it is part of me now so I hold on to it.

I do not believe in healing anymore.

I believe in transformation. 

We are dragged down continually as we become chaos

chaos becomes us 

but we never succumb. 

I find beauty and solidness in these broken pieces:

a mosaic of wars, wars, beatings and wounds 

glass, stone and colour, an impeccable imperfection 

of your life and mine. 

It is the vivid, crude nature of suffering that makes us whole and rooted.

I want to feel the earthly agony of the world and its exaltations

and absorb it all in like a mad atom. 

If there was ever such thing as separation, 

I was wrong. 

It is a mocking game that the world plays on us -

displacing our arms pulling left and right, up and down 

what is right what is wrong:

illusory concepts that are tenuous bricks making up our lives. 

I do not want to make a choice, the path has always been straight 

no curves, no divergent ways. 

I follow it and accept the stones that crack my feet, the wind that 

slaps my face, the blankness - it is all part of my journey. 

And if I fall and crumble, I come back

defeated but never identical, always changeable.

The fall moulds me, the pain sculptures me into something new

something stronger, something impregnable. 

I wake to find a new dawn that I neglected for so long 

the celestial beauty that holds

the end of night and the rise of a new day 

the sun and the moon 

lightness and darkness 

all synchronously in the gentle advent of morning.