At some point
the blindfold came off.
Opened a direct path
between the deep
roots of thought
and the subsequent
bloom of inmost belief.
The pinnacle
of the uttermost
is the intimate,
sharp edge
that I seek.
That place where
reality itself
cannot help
but fall down
to penitent,
awestruck knees
once it’s unyielding
rigidity
finally sees
the gleam
of another
otherworldly way.
Glorious
how rapture
suddenly bursts
from the forcefield
of the dark
like the dawning
break of a blinding day.
Pouring forth
a molten gold cure
that sweeps
the weeping
wound away.
A longing
far too long
exhumed
lays the scripture
of screams to rest.
The exposure —
the crux —
the nourishing
sustenance
of soft,
crumbling bread
broken by the
earthly hold
of folding,
grateful hands.
Watching how
symbolism
diligently
sands away
the coarse,
linear line
of the dreaded,
expectation
of looming due time.
So shall it
forever remind
that there are
no definitive sides
to a center.
By Jamadhi Verise, ©2022
See more of Jamadhi Verse’s Poetry here.
