Confusion, spun in grapefruit, Sour,
Yet so Cleansing,
I guess this Period is The Cleansing,
The Resurrection,
The Path being cleaned, upon my Instruction,
Upon my Prayer,
In the Cleansing, there is the sting of the Wound,
like lemons on freshly Shaved Skin,
the Tingling flirting with you,
but this wound is a Well,
like the Mouth of volcanoes,
Supple, hot and bubbling,
the Bouldering of Ongoing hurt,
This Underworld of Darkness,
the Healing,
beating on the sky of my daily life,
this deep drumming on the core of my days,
this endless time, full,
fatiguing dark purple,
this overweight shadow,
that comes and lays down as the day develops,
often more than not,
He sleeps upon me as I awake,
from my Morning breath, from the first nafas that releases itself,
Even after I have laid down my morning dances in joy,
Even when my feet and laughter have sent my hands up in prayer,
and when I wake with hope in my mouth,
with a new day scripted across my lips, and tongue,
as if a new newspaper had printed straight onto my face,
my mouth; the paper for the printer,
new words filling me up,
a kinder kiss from myself,
filled with strength and affirmation of the truth of the laws of nature,
I wake up in this newness,
But, then,
He comes,
He comes with weapons,
An anchor,
Heavy,
Dragging across my legs
My thighs scarred,
I am wounded in the centre,
I’m crouched down,
Looking at the sky, but all I see is my feet
Or is it that I look down to see my feet, but see the Sky,
The Sky is falling down,
and I am falling into it