Fields of Pluto

Where did you go in those realms of mind,
those distant places where we, who loved
and knew you, and held you, cannot follow?
Where did you go that needed to be so far
from all you were and all we knew and all
that you had always been; familiar, sure? 
There is no answer, only the epic silence,
for there is no understanding when psyche
is called, pulled, dragged from the place of
the known, into the fields of Pluto, where
that which must die is put to the sword of
necessity and that which must live, is seeded
in drops of dark blood; brought to being
in damp, brooding clods of earth, where
cracks reveal the dark lights of Hades, in
waiting, for the certain earth to be torn
asunder, that you could and would be
dragged down, led through corridors of
possibility, stripped, separated, cut apart,
in that disconnecting way of Soul; hung
in pieces on the hooks of probability and
destiny, waiting for the time when demons
could become angels and you would be
slowly, carefully and surely – recalled.

As loss and grief dismember, and remember,
 in the process does bring from death a new,
abundant and restorative life and being.
So do love and hope sweep with tidy broom,

the dust and shreds of all that was into new
shape and form, weaving in eternal way again,
a shifting of the heart and mind once known,
reminding that energy can never be destroyed,
but only transformed, and nothing is ever lost.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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