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,
perplexed. 
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.

Blog Archive