it is a gift

. . . in service the dying, and those living—undecided about fears—it is a gift to serve. A gift of which I've had the privilege lifelong: up front personal face-to-face; my children, friends, parents, strangers, relatives, myself actually.

Awakened from a deep deadly dream I realize that I've lost it, the dream I mean. Discovering an essential and humiliating truth: it — is — has been — will always be: impossible for me to articulate my love commensurate with the experience. . . . a longing howling deeply within buried alive. I wonder why since by nature and choice I am not shy.

Fearing nothing, admiring no one in any jealous sense, only celebrating their Self/Soul manifest silent, quiescent or shouted. I dream, dreaming and dream that which goes Bump in The Night: my bare feet hitting the floor running to write, remember, understand, the exquisite, words, stories, questions and yes, sometimes, explicit answers; only for myself this dark crystal glowing within—organic—whole.

The scenarios, myths, omens, portents, movies, entire new vistas opening before me through doors long closed. No fear, no terror, all good. Betimes difficult understanding. Lingering long afterward mysterious yet aware their having been at all one-upon-a-time.

The Great Ones, like the one resident now, lingering, long; my naked self in moon light desert alone moving: Wandering? Wondering? The latter, floating through long darkened tubes random to see what I saw and now cannot remember details of. Only the privilege of being at all. Submitting to the sense beyond all proof of a beyond death.

A lovely death in itself. This sense—fearful—only of destroying “Had She Said Yes” a cohort beloved at first sight but impossible until now. The leaving of—submitting to—a being alone until death takes me to what? Implied or explicit a love fertile together inferred. Together or apart bonded in the flesh. A two become one.

I own nothing, save this moment, this now, these choices; yet sense this is the path across the unknowable towards the scarcely understood.

Yes and Yes, to her Yes, is mine added. Clearly amplified.

addendum: The undertoad singing through my dark memory of this dream reminds me of railroad enthusiast their: tracks to known destinations . . . my dream's destination unknowable yet within black dark walls: an underground passage, subway or sewer bourn — eejit boy — its a birth canal! Not the River Styx or Rubicon flowing.

Yes, I be a fruitcake full of nuts and rum. Oh Yes! And candied fruit, eternally fresh.

addendum/addendum or PPS

it is not by vanity or boast but to suggest that you dear reader the few attend your dreams as well discovering yourself beloved whole/holy to the interlocutor The Source of all Longing and Love.

130511 22:10 it is a gift

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved