A ghost of a word offers a seed of light,
a wormhole of thought that echoes through the night,
threads of life that reach out and cross your path
a patchwork of tales that speak of the earth.
To weave into its fabric I take a deep breath,
interconnect with the mandala and its tender caress;
I give back, breathe out and harvest a flower,
a chain reaction of life and her creative power.
Circles within circles each a hologram of the all,
in the whisper of the wind and the smell of a rainfall,
the tides of the ocean drawn by the command of the moon,
the passionate calling of the cycles within my womb.
The spiral dance of the stars flow through my veins,
rivers of truth amassed from timeless rains,
cascading down to my deep mountain pool;
knowledge is a mirror that accepts no fool.
The beast of the beacons that devours you whole,
liberating your consciousness to the collective soul.
The tree that fells and embeds as a trace of the past,
entwines into the tapestry and forms a new quest.
Its spirit will dissolve into the ancestors of time
and its branches re-embody creating the sublime;
like a shadow of my past that perished in my heart,
nourishing my soul and engraving my art.
‘Black implies white and self implies other’,
I’m no stranger in this world my existence I discover.
Dancing in lush pastures where creativity is rife,
to weave into the golden tapestry of life.