Emotional Holocaust

 

 

Heartaches come in many colors, heights, and smells.
But the pain in my heart is always in that same eternal spot.
It is a place of dread, torture, and war.
How many times do I have to experience this place
before I learn the key that opens the door of love?
Love’s chamber is where I have been searching
only to find myself imprisoned over and over again
in the darkness of the spot.

I can feel when I approach the place
of torment and execution of the Self.
Close to its edge
I try to step away only to get sucked into it.
Once entombed, there is no escape.
Only time and self-examination helps me
move beyond the oblivion within my chest.

Will he ever love me again?
Will he want to caress my mind with his wand of light?
On tiptoes I reach my hand out of the hole hoping
he will grasp my wrist and pull me to the surface
where love works to restore the meaning of life.
I fear I have lost the hand to help me recover
the green-blue orb of kisses with admiration.

The hand that once helped me has disappeared
some where on the surface where my dreams
unite in oneness with all life.
My hand reaching out of the area of anguish
finds no one there on this endless, moonless night of
train whistles, police sirens, highway traffic, and barking dogs.

My muse is a muse of atonement and regret of all my lost love,
love lost due to my own lack of enlightenment,
wild anger, and poor communication with my true self.
Then, peaking over the hole, I see a paradox.
If he is a hermaphrodite and we are a hermaphrodite
then his liberation is my liberation.
Sharing destinies, his place of peace is my place of peace.
If his heart hardens to my efforts at recovery and health
choosing to walk away from my hand that needs him,
he is not the soul to lift me from the emotional holocaust
that are clogging arteries of intimacy.
Tomorrow or perhaps the next day when he comes again
will he bring words of reconciliation or a moving van?

Doctress Neutopia
May 10, 2003



 
 



 
 
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