Topic: Citadel

[Endless Whisper]

Citadel

Myself then, once a great citadel,
protector of my soul,
lightning stuck—the tower fell
violent—not a gentle dissolution,
Resistant to the end—
not to lose my footing on the world,
yet I had no roots to be thought of,
a citadel in the sky—the envy of predators
whose wings could never reach the top,
they were not strong enough...
I was too high and grand...
So aloof, none could enter the gates,
windows barred—doors sealed shut,
Surely I’d sealed the door to fend off my mortality.

Lightning strikes and I fall down,
rubble, rubble, rubble,
pebbles, pebbles, pebbles,
sand, sand, sand
ash, ash, ash,
now I am many,
scattered about...
nothing more…

Grasped by hands,
the rubbish that was 'me'
my tears mixed a solution
tears of anger moreso than despair.
softer, softer, softer
Changed into clay,
through magic or hard labor
I don't know...
and the potter
Kneaded and twisted and turned,
molded and shaped,
and I took form,

Here is my body,
zen flesh, zen bones,
now I am human,
whatever that means...
if human is only the garbage
of rubble from violence,
the leftover scraps and shards
from the past that formed me,
nothing is really new,
everything is really quite old,
birth - what is that,
how unoriginal!
A repeat of a cycle
each life is the same,
the faces look different,
but I've met them all before,
shall I meet them again,
see their dusty mirrors,
as they meet my own dusty mirror,
shall we polish these mirrors
once and for all?

I wiggle my fingers and my toes
Twirling the potter’s hair I say,
“give me eyes to see
who you are—explain yourself
if you dare… This is so wrong.”
For I was once content,
That great citadel,
protector of all,
certainly myself,
Giza remains, the Sphinx,
but I had fallen,
and why couldn't I remain,
infinite, as they did?

Now I'm much smaller,
more fragile and brittle,
but not bitter,
a testament to a mysterious past,
of insect or god
atom or galaxy,
what more could I possibly be,
why reduced to this,
that which lives and dies,
that which seeks and learns
there’s futility in seeking,
unless I turn myself inside out,
roll my eyes backwards,
how can anyone do that?

Alas, storms come and go,
no different than before,
I erode just the same,
rain falls and smooths me,
makes me crumble bit by bit,
this was my body—
lay me into the ground,
this will be my last stand on earth.
Thank God.
Thank something....

Standing outside myself,
I view the pottery I once was,
Now I am not,
But I was… for a little while.
Yet how can I still stand here?
Where are my feet, my hands?
What is left that remains?
When all is gone...
How can I stand if there is no ground?
So many questions, but silence
is always the answer....

Maybe that’s why I don’t need feet,
I don’t need roots,
I don’t need,
to fear lightning,
or the potter’s hands...

Maybe his intent, I do.

Then I wonder...
why he never gave me a name,
if I was his creation
after all that work
you'd think I'd be given one,
but its a secret...
a secret I may be told,
one day....

[littlefeather]

Nice one!
 
 

[Endless Whisper]

Nice one!
 
 

Thanks