Following the Pen

We look into the words
We stare deeply as if they were
A magical pool of crystal light -
Transfixed.

We hope for inspired shapes to form
Out of an impossible alphabet.
We hope those words will form
A soothing balsam
That gently restores life to pain.

More often
They assemble into
A trojan battering ram
That we use to shatter the gates
We create

Or arrive in silent stealth
Putting the knife to our throats
Before we find breath to gasp.

But here among magical mountains
I have burnt all my words to ashes
I sit too close,
Wondering what I have done
As my once warm cheeks long for life to stay.
Silence pervades.

I must leave, reluctantly
Wander, breathlessly
Along rocky trails and over stones
Under the cliffs I hear echoes
Words uttered by pilgrims
Fractured fragments float past
Lost whispers
Formless shimmering illusions.

The stones remember these prayers
But they were rendered mute long ago.

A prison, rich with stories above
Breaks too long silence
Speaking slow wise words

“You are in a prison of your own creation.
The walls and bars made solid by thought.
But transformation is coming.
Keep walking. You are not alone.”

The words fade,
All I can see is forest
And columns of lead.
Silence again.

I trudge up and down trecherous windy paths
My angels at my side,
Mute and loving,
Trying to lighten my load.

One heavy foot in front of another,
Lungs straining.

The sky breaks silence
“Walk on”

Disoriented circles,
Ashes touch the tips of my toes.
The embers I thought were spent
Now glowing impossibly red.
I hear sizzle, crackle and hum
The quickening has begun.

The bars soften and morph
The colour turns from
Grey to silver to gold.
A breath of alchemy from mountains above.

Exhaustion gives way to hope and strength
I prise the bars apart, tasting sweet freedom when suddenly words resound

“Take some gold from me, my friend,
And put it to the forge
Make a fine talisman
For words are made of gold.”Weiterlesen