To Begin With, the Fading Night and Blossoming Day

“Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.” ― Mahatma Gandhi

Every night when I lie down beneath the stars I die,
my only companion
being a blanket of sky and words ringing loudly
in my ears,
and every morning as I wake
my mind conjures new images for the soul
to dip in—
and even though the eyes may only discern one step
at a time
I am convinced the universe is leading me nearer
to my purpose,
my reason for existence for which I sought to embrace
the world.

The self is often unseeing, unaware of the path it’s supposed to be
of opinion,
I gasp as the cold air caresses my cheek
as though beckoning to observe the landscape,
the underlying possibilities for my poetic heart to indulge in.
The clouds diffuse morning light to a subtle sweetness,
as I ask myself the following questions: Who am I now?
who was I before?
I suppose awakening is when we finally learn to be true to ourselves
disregarding what others have taught us to be,
and while I choose to remain close to origin,
I can’t help but wonder why branches deeply rooted long to stretch
towards the horizon–

I am conscious of half empty tea cup and few rainier cherries
poised on the table,
their thick and creamy yellow flesh eager for a second bite;
eat, love and offer your palms in prayer, there is only so much
the heart can endure,
early thirties led me to understand who and what I truly am–
poetry my vivication, my pulse, my strength
as city remembers a forgotten tale and shadows shift like pearly rays
across a cruel moraine,
ignorance’s silhouette shows no remorse as verses scatter into the open–
I am a flickering flame familiar with its various hues
and shades,
as I ready myself for challenges my pen has yet to face.



Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Midweek Motif @ Poets United