I was again
into the mud,
opening yet another wound
in the wrinkled, earthen body.
I burrowed deeply,
Devouring the memories,
Releasing the toxins.
How ordinary, lowly, disenchanting!
How un-heroic, run-of-the-mill:
How silly to dream of
blossoms in the wind
and succulent clouds
while stuck to the bottom of the sludge
My heart took insult
so feverishly that for a second
I did not feel the rest of my body
warble into madness.
Trembling frantically, I broke down.
I became chaos.
One by one my old cells died.
I was terrified.
But in the midst of my panic
I became strangely calm.
Then I felt elated.
I enthusiastically released my old self.
I made it easy on death
to devour every inch of mud clinging to my being.
I was humming a hymn to my death.
Humming a high-pitch song.
A dream of wings and blossoms.
A dream of rainbow colors
and eyes that flew into the light.
A dream of changing winds
I became imaginal
while my old self became mush.
I had often imagined flying to be hard.
I had sometimes imagined it easy.
But I had not imagined flying to be now,
Now, as my wings unfold,
Now as I take to the wind.
Now, as I drink from the flower
On which I once crawled.
By Maria Mar
Maria Mar©May 21, 2012
(No reproduction, copy/paste or distribution allowed. Send your friends to this page! Thanks. Maria Mar)