Torn

We are so easily
torn
in the thin
gossamer
tissue
of our
insides,
ripped by
the shock waves
and fault lines of fear,
cracked through like crazy paving
by splintering
rage,
leaving behind barbed scars
that catch
in our soft folds
every time guilt
whispers in our ear.

In this arid landscape
wildfire hate flares
quick and furious
burning bridges,
immolating hope,
a no return
scorched earth policy.

Our regret tattoos with bitter acid,
indelible ink
etching and inscribing
us deeply with the story
of our disappointments.

Easily torn are we.

Why do we wound so
in that sweet place,
that rosy spot
in the centre of our being,
where feathery hope sings
its silvery song,
and a perfect lotus
open its petals
in anticipation of
love’s warmth?

Such tender blossom
thirsts for the nourishing dew
that falls in slow drops
from the blessing hand
of the Goddess into ours,
gently encouraging us to anoint
one another with the
balm of compassion and
the salve of empathy.

How do we not shrink
our lotus heart then,
stop it from petrifying forever
into cold tight fist,
when love is not
loving after all,
when trust feels
like a loser move
in a game of poker face
where blank faced foes
appear to be slow creeping
into our territory ?
Can we beat sword into hoe
and knife into spoon
hold cynicism within hope,
turn fist into caressing fingers?
Can we benefit stranger
by doubting our suspicion?
Can hope spring eternal
in such a parched
place?
Can you say yes
and mean it?
 
 
 
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