One is held captive ‒
in oneself, dwelling in one's unfulfillment;
until one opens up ‒
no other world can start.
And the pure, living, authentic
that was a wonder split second of magic,
a shy tenderness, fragments of eternity
has changed into
shapeless reminiscences of the universe.
Now one conjures it, calling it ‒
one yearns to become it again, one longs to be living it again ‒
it feels like breathing.
All else is like rotting
in the embrace of death.
Connection © Ladanseuse