Reliquary of Dreams
A gift awaits
I catch embers in the words you speak. Burning fingers like tendrils, reach into the river of space and time, finding me. Igniting me. Fire in my veins. I dissolve and fall away. Shakti’s inferno now uncontained. My eyes mushroom black as I transform from vessel to sacral essence. Your magic sets me free. Simultaneously giving birth to, and destroying me.
A lotus dreams of air and sky it has never seen. It fights filth, sediment, and excrement, emerging from sludge pristine. Alone it goes. Pushing through rocks and weaving around fallen trees. Quietly, it defies everything.
Sometimes I am mud. Nourishing and unseeing. Sometimes I am Lotus. Surviving and intensely dreaming. Sacred is either state. Both holding the other contained. A sensuous dance in being, held in the lived experience of changing.
Am I to be the turbid memories I keep
or the willful dreams I weave?
Sometimes I can’t tell memories from dreams. Or endings from beginnings. I can’t see the present when the future is dancing and the past is reeling. Still, I am reaching. Forged of both the pain I bear and the dreams I hold. Strengthened by the gifts suffering bestowed.