The Crossroads: Poetry

The writer stands
At the crossroads
and picks up 
a paper ship 
flowing in the water
over the writer’s shoes
As she touches it,
The Specter
of Fear appears
to block the Way...
A horror:
It spoke to me in
my father's voice
about every person
who would have 
been better off 
had I not been born
And I said aloud to
this entity of 
Unlived Possibilities:
“It was as much their
Choice as mine for
my being here;
The things that
afflicted them
were not my fault.”
The Spider 
danced on its legs, 
flashed its belly at
me with my mother's roar:
No one will love you.
And so I said aloud,
"My existence does
not depend on 
external phenomenon, 
but the compassion inside
I feel for myself and others."
So the specter picked me
up in its terrifying grip,
yelling fetid air in my face:
You have failed at everything;
you are NOTHING.
So I said aloud:
"If I am nothing, then
you are as well. Because
you are an extension of 
my imagination."
The spider 
put me down,
Then it wandered
off to ponder its
own existence.
The writer placed
the minute ship
back on the waters;
she followed this
stream that ultimately
led back to 
The Source.

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