Before I was burned,
I did not believe in fire.
I was spared the slap of reality.
I never needed to heal the welts
from the whip of love.
My life is easy. “Blessed,” you may say.
Kept from death, I never saw maggots
feed on the flesh of transformation.
My eyes are clean. The stains
on my soul are far too small
to warrant a hero's medal.
Yet here I am, standing on privilege,
as if I have a right to the holy staff.
I am too weak a vessel for the divine.
It leaks out of me like a sieve
and the flow never ends.
After years closing the lid,
patching up the holes,
I've lost interest in resistance.
I know it will shatter me.
But I say, "bring it on,"
because, deep down,
I know I will not
believe in the light
until it blinds me.
One of the sad truths of this being human is that we deny and neglect our true sprit. We often need to be hammered down before we relent and let go of the reigns we use to try to control everything. A friend of mine once said that his life was like a suitcase stuffed to overflowing, clothes hanging out of the edges. Instead of paring it down, he simply takes a pair of scissors and cuts off the fabric hanging out so it all looks neat and tidy.
What do you think it takes for us to awaken to our selves and our lives?
© Nick LeForce
All Rights Reserved
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