It is loss which dismembers us,

severs head from body in the cave,

fillets flesh and scrapes it from the bones,

rips out guts and hearts to be consumed,

reminds us, in the agony, of why we are

called to become, more than we have been.


As each eye sits, watchless, at the side,

and limbs are jointed and torn apart,

so is the Self reduced to small, quiet pieces,

and the task of resurrection, can, in time begin,

in darkness, and in suffering which is not believed;

birth can be brought from the very gobs of life.


As hook and knife and anvil do their work,

so what was known is dissected, pulverised

upon the hard, unforgiving, breathing stone,

and blood runs, freely, lightly into crevices and cracks,

pouring hope and vision into that which was cold and dead;

sacrificing in ironic clench, all that was once called truth.


Distant songs will drive the work of restoration,

to sing through notes sublime and cellular,

as destiny draws itself from dregs and liquid dross,

and daemons craft with small, fine hands new weavings,

which connect, what was, to what must be and ancient dreaming;

initiation will, in time, repeat, and circling, fall complete.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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