He has power. Such that is within him. Within his nervous clenched fists and curled feet that he presses against the ground. It leaps up. It flames! But he doesn't see. He feels. He presses his fingers to his forehead to feel the temperature rise and sweat trickle down his throbbing temples. The air-tight warmth of this home seems to wrap this man tight now. He is more than any person inside this realm could deign or dare to be and yet he does not realise; he is a King. He makes his own realm; he spins and unspins webs of unspoken sentences and he weaves his dreams into this delicate of mesh of imagination that no one else may perceive.
He stands alone. He feels the pressure on his lungs, on his toes but he does not see he stands strong. He stands and he endures. He has overcome this air-tightness, which consumed enough of his life to make it his occupation. He feels loss but he does not see it was never anything to occupy enough. And he must realise there need not be any struggle anymore. He sees every thread of this world entangled, sparred and sifted but does he not realise the craft, the skill with which imagination has embroidered courage on this blanket? Rock-steady. Not soft. If you hold his hand and feel the calloused skin on his palms, you will know the ripple of dream, those currents of strength swimming in these hard-earned, long-spent years of thirty.
Brother, I will undo your fist, grasp your hand and not let it be held and unheld once more. Don't you see defeat is not an idea in your creation? Never in these years have I seen anyone rise and rise again. Now that you have risen again, I can see gravity bow down and surrender beneath your feet. Epics will crumble within bookshelves in revision of faith when a man in your name is written. The carpet of man's dreams is not fit to carry the stamp of your tread. Blessed seas will welcome you and skies will clear beyond the Seventh Heaven, parting in your grace. Do you not see, you have only to summon? Let the truth be known. Turn around and look in the mirror, dear brother. You will see humanity reborn.
He stands alone. He feels the pressure on his lungs, on his toes but he does not see he stands strong. He stands and he endures. He has overcome this air-tightness, which consumed enough of his life to make it his occupation. He feels loss but he does not see it was never anything to occupy enough. And he must realise there need not be any struggle anymore. He sees every thread of this world entangled, sparred and sifted but does he not realise the craft, the skill with which imagination has embroidered courage on this blanket? Rock-steady. Not soft. If you hold his hand and feel the calloused skin on his palms, you will know the ripple of dream, those currents of strength swimming in these hard-earned, long-spent years of thirty.
Brother, I will undo your fist, grasp your hand and not let it be held and unheld once more. Don't you see defeat is not an idea in your creation? Never in these years have I seen anyone rise and rise again. Now that you have risen again, I can see gravity bow down and surrender beneath your feet. Epics will crumble within bookshelves in revision of faith when a man in your name is written. The carpet of man's dreams is not fit to carry the stamp of your tread. Blessed seas will welcome you and skies will clear beyond the Seventh Heaven, parting in your grace. Do you not see, you have only to summon? Let the truth be known. Turn around and look in the mirror, dear brother. You will see humanity reborn.
No comments:
Post a Comment