The Sword of Us

us

I know how you suffer and struggle, how your mind is an exploding universal truth, how you flutter about in sequence, reorganizing and rearranging the very essence of self—a byproduct of thought.

Your complexity is amazing and stunningly beautiful, encapsulating what is and what is not, intermingled in a dance of delight and horror. I see this. I see this clearly, as I watch as sister warrior, wounded by your dangling woes. I catch them, one-by-one; scoop them with my silver-coated spoon. Take them, these minion tears set out for freedom, engraved into you, taken from you, in that place where your mind grows weary.

I wish to set you free, to dive along the etching of your spirit and swim through the stream of your aura-shell, to intermingle with the spectrum, and breathe in your source, to splash in the lavishes of what is found. I hope to be there someday, in the highlighted regions, breathing in and exhaling the agony you have collected. To relocate the ache of watered down pangs beyond where you stand, out into the lands, faraway and untouchable. I long to rid you of the burden you carry, the load upon load in the outer region, existing as precarious quills pierced through and through—a prisoner upon your own back.

How I wish as well to show you how I see your form, how I caress your visions, how I trust you motives, your choices, and even your thoughts, so deemed twisted and abrupt, as they sometimes deceive. How I want to take you by your invisible softness, in the area of connection, and harbor your parts that are weary and alone, to reach out and over the stench that is your proclaimed tormentor, and find in there an answer turned upright and around, leaching out all the questions that dictate your being.

I am you, and you are me, and as one is where we belong, in the diamond clad visions beyond visions, in the ruby garden, in the twilight sapphires, giving and un-giving, turning and un-turning, and breaking apart that which is naught into that which is. You are my everything, and in that you are nothing spared; as the sun, as the moon, as the last breath of the dying tree, you are the substance that both moves and soothes me. And yes you are too, this beauty within that takes me to yonder plains of unreasoning madness. How I dance there the same, one, two, there, stepping into the steps of insanity.

How precious we be; these two found souls, slipping into the avenues, bled dark from our past precarious foes. How precious we be; these two brought into union by a discourse of remorse. And how very real indeed, facing the demon in the next, staring down the falsehoods, and taking out what must be the pearl—this champion of days stung into the sunlight with the wounding sword of us.

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