Breathless Cower

Out of breath and broken-soul-ed
we came and asked help.
Our old friend had failed us,
veiled us from the busy annoyances of commonplace.
It did for so long, but alas no more.
We were found out.

Our discoverer, we thought, was around this corner
or behind that door.
Internet investigators,
spouses or significants with phone records,
dilapidated victims with therapists,
and counterfeits for loving friends.

But we were found out by none of these.
Each morning, while preparing our face for the hunt,
it was those distant eyes,
who darted away from themselves
for terror that behind the gloss
was a demon, better left unfound.

We cowered.
And unempowered we plotted to gain power,
finding only emptiness instead,
unable to weigh against
our pea-hearted intentions to capture
another like ourselves for mutual offense.

Sometimes perhaps, a true blue catch
would then happen by,
unable to sniff our snare
but would not stay for dinner after the snare drew first blood
because it was not pain they were after,
not an escape or diversion but the truth we did not offer.

And there was none to be found here.
No true wisdom to impart.
No true love, only copies of copies of copies of copies
of the original, that cannot fill,
but the conviction finally that we did not know ourselves,
or even want to.

So when we celebrate the newness held dear
we dare not look back except to cheer
at progress made
not by human hands
but by willingness
stirred together with miraculous.

And isn't it fabulous
when we do arise in the morning dew
and see a light of happiness
that starts the day
upon our knees or jumping high
as if to reach the morning sky.

Cry out cry out
abide in love not for the fly caught in our web
but for ourselves and for our walking-mates
as they weekly demonstrate
that walking works
to oil the cogs of life fulfilled.

And so we build, and build and build.
And n'er do we stop to get a fill
of our old friend, no friend at all,
it's lurkings left to virgin land.
Our kind of soil is for sobriety
not its old shot of futility.

Our eyes now clear can stare all night
at themselves in a mirror
or at others in the light.
And should we look upon the ill
we have compassion but not a chill,
for we know of pain remembered still.

It was the hurt that must precede
the healing deep, the sowed seed
that became ourselves.
We withdrew from things that lurked,
those things that killed,
killed ourselves, shot those we hurt.

Celebrate, celebrate!
Celebrate, celebrate.
Its just in time.
It's not too late
to suck the marrow from the bone
of life and precious, precious sobriety.

Those who now look behind our eyes
can see the soul that shines a'bright.
And when we look down in the pool
we don't exalt. We do not hide.
The person there is truly loved
by two at least and sometimes more.

We need not search another place
but in our prayers and in our face
to find the hope that we embrace,
that we adore, that we must take
and give again to keep the flow
that must be given, that must be shown.