The Crossing

Make sense of it.   

A mask is pieced together and traced back.  

A life is worth more 

Than will ever be spoken of it. 

Stories are told, painted. 

Pages, and scripts, become 

Scenes and things, 

Depicted, wrenched, 

With madness and everything real. 

Languages are sung in different tunes and weaves melodies to our souls 

That not our rational mind can know. 

Lives are told, 

And loving is everywhere, 

Everywhere present with me, the least. 

Cushion is this, essence, 

  That soothes discomforts that come to pass. As do things good and whole, the dance is a taking and breaking of the sea- 

A push, and pull. 

Each life weaves like a ray- 

A vast line, In a vast fabric, 

Connecting all. 

  Doubts keep, like tourments. Up, and spilling out, 

In hurricanes or heaves- 

Things the chest struggles to grieve- 

Her, at Sea. 

I thought I was great once. But life can become so many things. 

I, am a mountain now- a sleeping giant. 

Hard, with bedrock- a form I do not know. A form I am. 

Nonetheless, it escapes me now, because it does not mean anything. 

What reality is, shall I ever know, but that it can break you.  

I do not want the world at times, just as it does not want me. Yet. 

   there is a light that warrants change. 

And I am it. And we are it. But will you come? 

Awaiting, a long while, 

The horizon is setting in shades, and your journey is facing me, the West, but I see you in no vast distance. 

I 

Must cross myself. 

There is a train track. And it is a hidden gate.  

I hesitate. Not sure if I want to take this step with nobody by my side.  

But I muster up and go anyways. 

Because nobody is here.  None but The Sky, The gateway, and me, alone. 

Crossing. 

God give me strength. And Cloak me. 

Together, 

We are the way.