Ravel

My compass whirls meaninglessly, disoriented,
and I am blinded by the afterimage
of a brilliance that was never really mine.
Empty, finally, in the face of what I cannot
un-know within my own heart,
enclosed by the dense unreality
of the person projected on the shell
of a self that never really was.
I grieve the necessity of what will be,
the only resolution honest enough to be possible;
my peace with it standing surety
against my yearning for a well-spring
long run dry.
Truth a gritty brine coating my throat,
choking coherence,
silence now in these barren wastes
where secrets seeded stories,
seeking, desperate, for every last morsel
of what might have been food.
May I be prairie now,
wildflower-ing abundance coaxing hearts
to sink roots deep, each fully present
to its moment, its place, this glorious life.
May I be soil now,
and the sun’s shining,
and the swift, sudden knowing
that blooms when being your belonging.
May I be, at long last, safe
in this dissolution, fertile
in the freedom of coming undone.