I let go, grasping nothing but air, “It’s not real” I say over and over again, Until I can almost believe it myself as I tumble into the darkness.
No desire, no longing exists here, No need to have, yet a have to need, This bewilderment seems to follow me everywhere.
How does this thorn become as wanted as the Rose? “Silly question” says the mistletoe to the tree, “You are mine and I shall suck the life from your limbs.”
Such truth resides in this destiny, I mold it, I nurture it, I allow it to be, So I swing an ax upon my little Divinity.
When held in intense desire, Do I puncture you as the thorn? Or do I sweeten the air you breathe as the Rose?
Do you turn your senses from me? Or look forward to more? Which do you find caresses your sweet soul in ecstasy?
Questions…questions…I could scream, I am as unsure about this as I am about the rotted limb I have rested on, Such is the reflection I see in my little Divinity.
“You fool” says the mistletoe casually ringing the bells in my ears, “You have created me and now you wonder why I exist? Don’t blame the nectar for the ugliness you are”
To define myself in how you define me makes me the parasite, To see myself in what you see in me makes me the fool. To be my self beyond your thoughts creates such loving ecstasy.
So I must be me in order to be “free”, And I must accept you in order to be “me”, For, after all, I am, if nothing else, a little Divinity.
©2010 Thomas P. Grasso All Rights Reserved ☮ ℓﻉﻻ٥ ツ