A light beams bright into your eyes. You cry. As air fills, chills run up your spine. Supine, into their loving arms you’re folded.

The coldness comes unrecognized, but fades as he and she regard your face. Your tears, a first, and theirs for you as two embrace the moment…

…Are you awake?

The quiet you once knew has passed. Replaced by chaos bound in murmured sounds running ever hopelessly together.

You take on some as if your own. The me and my, the mine, the I. Yes, these are yours as someone you become.

You scratch, and scribble, and then indite upon your ledger stone. Oh, what strife there is in stretching sinews.

Your words – your choice – in kind they write a life, as his and hers did cite that cold, cold day…

…Are you awake?

You find that chill felt then was real, and too find warmth, as you observe the dyad turn along the course of the ecliptic.

Amidst its heights and lows you learn to take on clothes, and cast them off, as to discern what is, and what is not, the I you seem to be.

Yet atop your feeble frame enfold aloft such ragged cloth, which heave when steeped within the sea of time, produced from but a trickle.

Thereupon your I doth sink, deprived of breath that seems to shrink from nigh to endless fathoms in an instant…

…Are you awake?

Your voice now honed bemoans the loss. Both grief and praise inthrong into a tragic opus.

It tells a tale of heroes slain. Of flesh amassed upon the grave. What cost for whom conceives thyself enlaced within such somber lyric.

Yet in this ballad rest remains; the break, the pause, the gentle breath…che viene come da lontano. (Translated: which comes as if from a distance.)

For just as stars repose within the dark, your soul doth lie in-wait upon your silence…

…Are you awake?

Oh the sight. The trillion brilliant lights. Some other’s suns, and yours a point within some other’s night. They captivate you.

You dream you might be seen again as twas that day, so long forgone, adrift into a murky distance.

Yet in the dream your star doth raise. Your arms outstretch and spine align. Your body, as a dial, casts its bearing in the heavens.

And in your shadow o’er the trodden clay, ten thousand days doth pass as seconds, but then, as on a subtle wind, at last you hear her whisper…

Each of us are given chances, passing glances to behold a self that dances in the space amidst descending earth and rising aether.

Ephemeral these visions seem, as vapor taken by vanilla skies, while the tide of life in stride advances.

But in the throes of joy and sadness – triumph and most merciless defeat – their geist and that which comes to pass condenses.

In dew deflecting convex lenses, dimensions fuse in skewed reflections and stars above ignite within the synapse of our senses.

For whom this light remains unseen, the drops deluge foreboding seas. Self-begotten, yet forgotten; swells submerge and drown them.

For whom that sees but takes not heed, drops loose lament as tears to cheek; accumulate to shallow pools, converge, and then surround them.

But for thee who sees and seeks to be, as seed in mind-scapes lying fallow, the dew reanimates a life engendered through their focus.

And so it is, their days proceed, about a haze of things which intercede, and yet they stay above the fray, enlightened by true Gnosis.

If you sense this dream has come to pass; alas in the reverse of your own visage be not smitten.

Instead breathe deeply in your rest. Yes, start again to apprehend the silence.

For only steadfast from within, doth spirit near enough at last, for one to hear when they are asked…

…Are you awake?

Although you may now comprehend, should you yet wonder, who am I?
Thence, pray that you assimilate the Logos.

It is written:

Until thou callest thyself mine, I’ll not be that which you would find,
But if thou hearest me attentively, thou too shalt be as I,
And I as what I was, when you’re beside me as I am.
Truth is understanding then, as I am thee thou art…

…

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Poem: Matthew Burton
Featured Image: Christ of Saint John of the Cross / Salvador Dali

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