Bondage

We sit at the table,
each one of us a child, holding on to our archetypes from years ago.

Are you simple?
Are you wise?
Are you evil?
Are your words so stuck within that you have nothing to say but a soft coo?

At least we showed up.
There is another, circling the table, who knows there is a seat for them, but they are too full of pride to even share in the conversation.

And then there is one more, the wonder-filled child.
She is outside playing in the fire.
Her hair curls as she holds out her wine cup to spirit,
she thinks, 'this time, he will surely arrive',
but the screen door slammed shut,
and nobody else wanted to relish in the midnight blue clouds.

Her tambourine sends delight down her spine, and her hips start to shake.
She knows he is coming, the wind shifts and blows upwards,
miracles are here, and she smiles wide in her knowing. 

Which child are you tonight?

Unfurl the fiddlehead,
peel your blood orange.

klipah. klipah. klipah and all that junk.

We are the ones who tied ourselves up in bondage, it is only fitting to be the one to release it.
But our mouths are gagged, our hands limp and useless.

We call out from the inner depths.

There is an expansiveness that awaits -
what can man possibly do unto me?

So I wrote a tune, and sweetly caressed the wounds within.
Playing in the juxtaposition of space and time,
the spiral of everything.

Last year I cried deep loud moans in Death Valley,
I wanted you to hold my hand, to lean my tired body on your warm shell.

Instead, I fell over rock, you screamed at me, and the whole village awoke.

Here, I break free.

Where I enslave, I also open pathways.

"How is this moment unique and divine?
Sacred space and sacred time."

Chains get rusty and crack,
but this time, I hold the key.