Becoming one with this itch, I scream
silently pointing fingers of blame
mirror mazes blazes back at me
with glaring intensity
I scratch; hide from the faces
that hatch within this mould,
folding in on me; becoming me
in some sick dream…wearing
my masks and laughing
till my words spill chaotically
trying hurriedly to heal
the split; duality disappearing
with Light embracing Dark,
a dance of essence…
and I am reformed,
consciously;
I take the fake parts and hearts
and tear them apart
to reveal the Real,
the healing taking place between
this world and this dream
the great arc, the great bowl
with which my fever is fed,
this empty vessel fuelling
fire in my head;
I am held; they drink of me
like a wine sweet;
the intoxication of the beast;
listen, dear sir…would you care
to cleave this belief with me,
turn it into dichotomy?
Ah, there’s the secret, the sane
hand with which I claim
this land, this realm…
splitting hairs for fear of
Life, reconciled in the wiles
of the worm; earth furnished
and tarnished to term…
faded…outmoded…games played
with translucent trust…
am I breaking apart, fading away
claiming only the name of
the game, but suffering the
flame like all the rays
that have manifest here
since the Dawn?
~Charleen Johnston 2005
BlissNinja 