[ NaPoWriMo - 2018 Collection ] Anatomy of Loss

The Known Unknown:                        
a subconscious Being residing                        
amid our Living waters;                        
an under-pulse within reach                        
of understanding                        
Its indecipherable meaning                        
barely beyond explainable feeling                        
neonatal in our inked pens                        
gestating awareness                        
An unconscious Light Source                        
awakening revelation                        
from doubt and confusion                        
looting contented ships                        
sailing uncharted territories                        
It's the most welcomed death                                      
we'll willingly birth ourselves                                      
human bone to experience                          
So delectible, Life's taste                          
eagerly swallowed                        
before severed, screaming                        
from the leaking nipple                        
by separated illusion                        
And that, Dear Reader                        
is scarcely the beginning                        
And yet, it isn't . . .                                                           
The beginning is vaulted                        
memory vague as dreams                        
infrequently recalled                                                              
in their truest context                        
Denizins of mapped choice                        
are an eco-system of experience                        
so vast, existence expands                        
to accommodate us                        
before snapping back                        
This blueprint of breath                        
designed to offer an array                        
of options simple as a direction;                          
or, complex as manifestation                        
We could choose a billion                        
variations, and would barely                        
move granuals of mountain                        
through ten thousand eons                        
Lifetimes are mere blips                        
amid a spectrum of time                        
that doesn't really exist                        
beyond our human minds                          
And yet, it does                          
Because, what is Time                        
but a mechanical process hurdling itself                        
through indefinite space                          
An irreversable non-existence                        
routed between present and future                        
hinged on successive measurement                          
sequenced in scheduled events;                          
Mathmatics comprised of seconds                        
an elevated fourth dimension;                        
Reason positing a spacial solution                        
appeasing third-dimensional beings                        
Their insatiable thirst for knowledge                      
logging each discovery in moment                        
Time, its restrictive force binding                        
the essence of freedom they seek                        
Years, constructed from days                        
in intervals of hours, and so on. . .                      
swallowing second-hand by minute                        
limitless potential infinite as Pi                        
'Does anybody really know what time it is                        
Does anybody really care                        
If so, I can't imagine why'
Tears, Dead Sea scrolls                      
forming endless salt pillars --                      
bitter purge, emotionally mundane                      
stark perception of illusion                                              
Lower vibration, confusion                      
encased in human condition;                      
adorned misunderstanding                      
layered as seasonal clothing                      
Pudgy at birth, we unraveled                      
rolled skin for paper-thinned age                      
spotty, bruised, torn remnants;                      
Time, a long departed visitor                      
Our constrictive flesh, self-created                      
star of solar plexus turned super nova                      
splintering our remnant dust                      
back into the Universe                      
Death: A morse-coded language of                      
turned burning constellation of Us                      
charting birth all over again to live                      
Perseus, Andromeda, Zeus --                      
mythology or Native American tongue                      
At the birth of the sun                      
and of his brother the moon                      
their mother died.                      
So the sun gave to the earth her body                      
from which was to spring all life.                      
And he drew forth from her breast                      
the stars, and threw into the night sky                      
to remind him of her soul.
So there's our testament                      
to history in systems of belief                      
each an ending remnant                      
of having been;                      
There is always a trace of Death                      
in every Life we've lived;                      
a blueprinted library of reference                      
We are drawn to kindred                      
libertine in celestial clusters                      
partial dust of our own being                      
beckoning their distance                      
Faint beacons, winking eyes                      
of dipper-shaped watchers                      
bulls, bows and arrows                      
Water Bearers,  bright red Antares                      
beating steady in Scorpius;                      
a worn Heart on the sleeve of space                      
whose Love cannot be extinquished                      
More deeply stirring to the blood                      
than any earthly knowledge                      
could be, real or imagined                      
Skin-shrouded loneliness;                      
the price of choice                      
and discovering ourselves                      
through perpetual loss                      
Love doesn't alter                      
when it alteration finds
it only ever begins                      
over, and over again                                                        
The heart's capacity to Love                                                  
remains unknown                                                  
until broken by contrast;                                                  
contents spreading as olive oil                                                  
over a painful harvest                                                
The deeper the hurt                                                  
the higher the joy;
a ladder's rungs                                                  
in the evolution of Us                                                
Sowing carefully these                                                
parted furrows of experience                                                  
It's not a bud opening                                                
in season that surpasses time;                                                
But the surviving bulb                                               
within a catalyst of soil                                                
persevering its dark Life                                                
It is not what blooms                                                
that matters the most                                                
but what is rooted                                                  
and can only be felt                                                  
Our beaded hands                                                  
now coppered from blood                                                
have sewn a guarantee                                                  
that will annually return                                                
It is the Glory of God                                                  
to conceal a matter                                                
( even in dirt )                                                
and the honor of Kings                                                  
to search it out                                                
( unto Death )
Bound in Love has always                                                  
been Our Fate;                                                
Its strength Belief                                                
Its Heartbeat Grace                                                  
Until tasting ripened fruit                                                
peeling an orange's blouse --                      
its nakedness moist on our lips                      
We rest a bit, mend Our Hearts                      
then rise, Hand-in-Hand                                                
Facing the trek                                            
one cannot say to the wind                                            
Withhold yourself;                                            
We can only adjust our sails                                            
to endure its force                                            
Our inability to recall decisions                                            
would have us believe it wasn't by choice;                                            
But, it was, and is a customed safety net                      
We charted these rough waters                      
of forgetfulness to navigate                      
cataracts of blindness                                            
Sailed into sunken sockets                                            
starless voids, frigid darkness                                            
a damp skin of fog enveloping Us                                                                 
We forage arid wilderness                                            
for mannah, pray Our hunger                      
against grain of circumstance                    
Envision a paradigm shift                                            
axis tilting Our feet                                            
from northern loneliness                                            
That southern cross-road                                            
of warmth, its one way sign                                            
  Home Just Ahead                                            
  ( p.s. Don't give up )
Inside, Our daily bread;                                            
new eyes holding space                                            
atop mended Hearts                                            
of aged experience                                            
Outside, the capricious wind                                            
     withholds itself                                              
Blustery conditions closed nature's gate                  
with an icy cold rain yesterday                      
In my younger days                      
I would've donned a plastic poncho                      
and venture out anyway                      
But, asthma, dormant for years                      
has awakened for a final stand;                      
and these crippled lungs                      
don't have a crutch                      
so I dare not risk my health                      
The solitude of cancelled plans                      
stirred my soul to wake more deeply                      
to the destiny of my making                      
Truth and Trust move inside                      
positioning themselves justly                      
against the barricade of a Heart                      
that maintains its defense                      
In accordance to declarations                      
I fail to recollect                      
a Holy war has commenced                      
its motto:                      
“Live your Truth, and Trust                      
will always touch your Heart.”
It became yesterday's mantra                      
within white-candled walls                      
and incense                      
Today the sun is brilliant                      
diamond droplets stirring grass;                      
watery insects of firey light                      
and I realize                      
Loss is never what we think it is;                      
We never lose our ability to live                      
despite change engulfing Us                      
We evolve willingly, or not;                      
forget, or don't; let go, or hold on;                      
Face the circumstance, or run;                      
Throw in the towel, or fight;                      
Look to the future, or back                      
walk onward, or turn pillar of salt                      
The bones of loss are but                      
an opportunity to discover                      
you either are, or aren't                      
what you think you're made of                      
The revelation is solid                                            
From birth, categorization begins                      
compartmentalizing by parents                      
teachers, family, friends;                      
domesticating our human nature                      
into acceptibly conformed behavior                      
As we mature, employers                      
romantic partners, spouses                      
children, neighbors, the PTA                      
or a jury of our peers pass judgment                      
until unsure of who we truly are                      
If we ever knew to begin with                                          
We pattern ourselves to please                                          
by early attempts                                          
to put blocks in the right shape                    
Obey from young mistakes                                          
garnering hands slapped                                          
until swollen, reddish pink                                            
Train ourselves to conform                                          
from public discipline                                          
attracting a belt across our back                                                             
Wonder years are half-spent                                          
secretly exploring                                          
who we're told we aren't: ourselves                                                  
And, resisting who they tell us                                          
we are according to their labels                                                           
For those who seek, there is Truth                      
waiting to be discovered                                          
Those who accept their sentence                      
suffer torture in a prison cell                      
of their own creation                      
This is the blood-letting of real loss;                      
But, Life will not bleed to death                      
It is endless                                        
As long as breath exists                                        
there is chance; even unto Death                      
comes afterward in memory                      
Choice presents herself                      
an angry mistress or amiable love                      
offering 50 percent chance of regret                      
if you allow it                      
The Future shouldn't be weighed                      
by what wasn't chosen                      
or measured contemplations                      
"If only I had done                      
this. . .or that;                      
What if . . ."
There is beauty in deprivation                      
Its marble contrast cold                      
against the soft lawn of a cemetery                      
This is the Heart of Loss:                      
Lavender wisteria molts                      
on the vine, melts as candles                      
across the ground                                        
It is not our diminution                                        
that they die before us                                        
but the evergreen's gain                                        
having adorned their beauty                                        
We are blessed witnesses                                        
to their now endless existence                                        
Our pulse beats funerary drums                                        
to a migration of blood                                        
Its rhythm is humble gratitude                                        
not the destitution of loss                                        
We are patches of many color                                    
stitched together in existence                                      
Even those faded and worn                                    
are covered with freshly created                                      
Conjoining them infinitly:                                    
aged and young                                    
in survival and strength                                      
Lifetimes become grounded                                    
layers and shades of shale;                                      
sedimentary rock forming history                                    
and discoveries to be lived                                    
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust                                    
from stars to the bosom of Earth                                      
sans a Life Force once housed;                                    
this is the reason for Loss:                                      
Regenerative Breath                                    
in endless cycles of Birth                                    
What can be added unto                                    
a full life lest it overflow                                    
Or, that which is stagnant                                    
to anything new                                    
Every day is different                                    
yet the sun rises unchanged                                    
Despite weather                                    
the lunar push and pull remains                                    
Holding on suffocates experience                                    
draws breath from hope's lungs                                    
until an emphysemic collapse                                    
imminently courts Death                                    
Ask of your heart drum, now                                    
Surrender, that I may follow                                    
the beat of my own Life                                    
and not walk this path again                                    
For what can enter                                    
that which is closed                                    
least of all Love                                    
Silence begs it remember                                    
its own secret of Loss:                                    
Fear is venomous to release;                                    
Perdition its only antidote                             
Today I drove downtown                                  
picked up Dragon's Blood incense                                  
and a Tibitian bell                                  
dangling from a brass elephant                                  
This soothing sound                                  
triggered a forgotten era                                  
entombed in my DNA                                  
A blue crystal ball                                  
flanked by ruby spheres                                  
join the chime and mammal                                  
linking physical and Spiritual                                  
Seeking to become more sincere                              
it will provide focus                              
while surrendered to Love                                  
outside my comfort zone                                  
The further I move                                
from Western life, the closer                                  
I feel to an unknown home                                  
of barefeet and tintinnabulums                                  
singing bowls and chanted mantras                                  
A sanctuary of contemplation                                  
an inner temple of no attachment                                  
deep emptiness with nothing to lose                                  
peaceful being I've never known                                  
This is the Truth of Loss, my friends:                                  
There honestly is none                            
Humans mimic seasons                            
shed organic casings                              
as fields of Spring lilies                              
ensuing winter's strident march                            
before summer's ardent burning                              
Yet, cycles are not Nature's loss                              
but, an infinite circle of growth                              
whose cyclic yield increases                            
what was once possessed                            
Oaks are thicker                            
irises double their bloom                            
tea roses carpet the bush                              
If strength is to loosen self                              
as a mountain releasing its own rocks                            
into an avalanche                              
And courage to open up                              
as flowers sacrificing their hearts                            
for breathe despite death                              
Then is not the Lesson of Loss                            
to willingly relinquish control                              
through each and every experience                              
And learn gain only by letting go                            
We cannot retain                            
what is not ours to possess;                            
a formation of atoms                            
into three-dimensional artifacts                            
Tangible energy housed                            
in humans and trinkets                            
landscapes and dwellings                            
A whirlwind of molecules                            
swirling in formation                            
I tap my energy                            
into a phone or computer                            
its meaning resonates                            
with the me inside you                            
Vibrations of feeling entwine                            
in affectionate mastery                            
Or, clash in respective history                            
begging us question. . .                            
What has been left undone within me                    
that requires healing for peace;                    
What did I step out of myself to see
It is impossible to wholly observe                          
each aspect of a lifetime                          
from within its skeleton                            
Optical filters condense actuality                          
into a canned essence                          
of truth sans extended substance                          
Personal perception is not                          
Universal Reality, yet is forced                          
with judgement if rejected                          
This is what it means to be human:                          
Repetitiously existing one incarnation                          
to the next, until overcoming fear                          
Accepting each individual circumstance                          
as contrast vs loss; not as a victim                          
but creator of all future experience;                          
Recognizing the reason we returned                          
is to accept responsibility, and evolve                          
Blame: spiritual detonation                    
Accuse. Judge. Condemn guilty                    
of circumstance, disempowering                    
the opportunity for growth                    
Shame, playing the victim                    
damaging the soil of Love                    
which cannot survive such injury                    
Unless acknowledged                    
by rising above                    
Where is there to go from blame                    
except circular motion, repetition                    
duplicating pattern within pattern                    
until ingrained in contemplation                    
In the mirror there is solution;                  
tactile braille on embossed reflection                    
conveying the soul of intuition                  
It cannot be spoken, only felt                  
by your solar plexus                    
that many pointed star of nerves                    
radiating . . .                    
There is no fault; let it go                    
Trust your Spirit Guide --                    
there is nothing to lose                    
except yourself to blame                    
if you continue holding on
The art of letting go                  
takes lifetimes to master                
Obsessive thoughts linger--                
swelling into anger                  
their toxicity spreading                  
There are no redos in life                
no moments backtracking                
into a milk and honey life                
Only the circular trek of walking                
a broken compass                
of past circumstance                
The lonely frequent often                  
desserts of forgotten years                
paying homage to what ifs                
Plotting vicious revenge                  
competitive gossiping                  
playing victim to their own choice                  
Starving the Spirit raw                  
until nothing but bones                  
What then becomes of them                
their lying tongue, betraying heart                
nomadic tribes of cliques                  
seeking to belong                  
They evolve in their own time                  
with help from those who've lived                  
and overcame in Love                  
To taste gain is to trade                
some thing for another;                
replacement by virtue of change                
Though rubble be bloody                
from fragments of sky  --                
it's the desired beginning                  
The Universe responds                
to levels of vibration;                
frequency attracts frequency                
Should you gaze upon only lack;                
cracked windows, leaky roof                
with no hope of redemption                
Appalachia is filled with shacks                
housing destitute souls;                
starving and cold shells                
How can one possibly vault                
poverty when they've known                
nothing else to compare it to                
Yet, I tell you it has been done                
and it all began with loss              
Light arises within flesh                
reminds us who we are                
when presented alternatives                
Not missionaries who require              
recitation of the 'sinner's prayer'                
so a starving man can eat                
or the cold receive blankets              
sick and dying medicine                
to retain a speck of dignity                
But, those who ask for nothing              
save you take what they're offering              
that your hunger be nourished                
They don't preach the word              
or shame your circumstance                
as all you've ever lived;                
They shine; reek of Light              
kindness on their breath;                
possess warmth of heart              
Answer only if asked                
why are you doing this              
to which they reply                
Because I Love              
Those are the Ones              
peeling a dark moment              
to reveal its ripening fruit                
And once you've tasted --              
you'll never look back                
nor remember this loss                
Despite it being all you had                
Mississippi mud shack              
walls cracked with spring              
or winter depending              
on the season it was              
Dirt through floor boards              
never changed regardless              
of what weather was born              
I was a cotton picker hanging              
from my cousin's back              
alongside the negro              
Deep south was the same              
to poor white trash                
as it was black slaves              
And yet there was happiness;              
an untasted closeness              
among the geography              
of wealth and greed              
Untamed beauty resides              
in poverty the affluent              
consider loss of equality              
The wise know gratitude              
not for gluttunous coiffeurs              
but dialy bread to break              
Blessed and shared              
intimately by friends and family              
while the upper eschelon              
lost amid their grand estates              
Contemplate entire fortunes              
eschewed for a Life of Love              
What propogates success            
Is it opportunity, determination              
relentless pursuit of happiness            
Only to discover it wasn't              
what was believed to begin with              
so all seems lost for naught              
Reaching outward, searching            
arms and hands stretched              
far from the epicenter of self            
Hoping to discover a Holy Grail            
of contentment, excavating              
caverns of years, mining hours              
Always pyrite at fingertips              
yet onward digging for gold              
tunneling moments down              
Ever external, there, somewhere            
over the rainbow, across the bridge            
beyond a great divide it lies              
What's been sought since birth              
But, it's never found around              
the next bend or over that hill              
One day during rest, it rises            
quietly, flooding chambers              
of heart in sudden realization              
Nothing's 'out there' to be found            
least of all peace and Love              
it's only ever been within myself
In the beginning, creation            
was born from resonance;            
a vibration of tangible flesh            
Loss is measured in perspective;            
if it gains material possessions            
but loses itself through process            
what then has it really attained            
and vice versa            
It was once said he is no fool            
to give up what he cannot possess            
for that which he can
Honor, dignity, and respect            
carve out a circle of balance;            
law of sower and seed            
For whatsoever is sown            
thus shall be reaped            
in this lifetime, and the next            
Because in the end, only kindness            
counts as profitable from contrast            
of experience toward evolution            
All else is vanity and loss            
or so the Preacher said          
What then of vanity            
pointless pride in self            
For there is nothing new            
under the sun, including            
what you do this moment            
Because you've been here          
before, standing at this crossroad          
ready to choose again            
Listening to your instinct            
saying, stay straight. . .          
yet looking right or left, unsure          
Or over the shoulder, from where            
you came, unsettled by choices          
in what you've created            
Slowly turning bitter salt            
unable to let go, move forward          
accept the double-helixed blueprint            
drafted by your own hand            
Sealed in wax, libraried scroll            
uncracked until returned home          
determined to re-experience;          
This time remembering--          
or perhaps heeding          
what needs be done:            
A choice you haven't made          
Déjà vécu, we've already lived          
lifetimes, vaguely remembering          
faces, places, what was said          
Experience haunts our Being          
years attempting understanding          
What Life was, or wasn't ours          
to command, to retire adorned          
in comforts of each other's smile          
The security of Love so foreign          
to most, their minds entertain          
such an existence as false          
For how could such rarity          
exist if untasted first hand          
Glimpses of light, whittled words            
conversations in part trickle          
memory bank, safety deposit box          
secure in a historical vault of Us          
But still, we've been here before          
duel keys in hand, the code waiting          
to be unlocked by our next choice          
Despite all odds, now and then          
I stand with you in distance          
holding space between this:          
Treasure hunt of choices          
a box of chocolates          
never knowing with certainty          
where it will lead --          
only that it shows Us          
moment to moment          
where we are to be          
Deja senti, or so now I feel          
presence within the memory well        
reforming our destiny again          
Water of Life from the central Source          
glassine in natural element;          
such a pure and flowing remembrance        
No paranormal needing explained        
simple organics personified          
creating a free-will circumstance          
Arthritic bones, olden and hinged        
creak beneath aged sinew and flesh        
of our third dimensional Beings        
Atrophied shale of retired muscle          
rocks gently a sagging train of thought        
requiring no intuition for this;        
When all is quiet, and all is done        
Others won't remember what you said          
nor what it was you did, even when;          
only how you made them feel
And that's the entire Truth of it          
Déjà visité, I know this place        
as though I lived here myself        
ruins of jagged stone stretching        
miles into the atmosphere        
Some towering legacy, labor        
of a nobleman long buried        
But I, I know this very place        
where gardens graced the lake        
A covered footpath in a glade        
stepping stones reclaimed by dirt        
gardener's shack with aging tools        
and . . .there it is, the secret swing        
Peeling paint, rotting wood        
half hung by frayed rope, memories--        
the mighty oak from which it swung        
now a snag reclaimed by nature        
This geography and spatial relation        
are as bodies of ocean meeting;        
two amalgamating entities cojoining        
to bind physical and spiritual Being        
This body is different, Spirit is not        
its Source ineffably unchanged --        
the steps I trod, once I skipped        
to Love born under that tree        
That lifetime gone, this one not        
so different, and yet the same        
This old swing, that old tree        
the castle in which I played        
I cannot remember face nor name        
I cannot utter the sound or game;        
But, ruins stretching high their aim        
O! Yes; I certainly know this place        
I'm uncertain what's left      
to dissect in currency of breath;      
of world elitism, perhaps      
no thing remains to be gained      
We pillage through chambers      
of heart seeking its riveting      
source: the will to sustain Life      
by continually emptying itself      
Dissect black tar and nicotine      
from advanced lung disease      
Hemisphere the brain beyond      
our own limited capacity for cure      
Acupuncture nerves from pain      
Meditate worries away;      
stretch muscles firmly taut      
while compassion wanes      
A lifetime is spent filling      
surroundings materially;      
competing for a win fiercely      
refusing to relinquish gracefully      
That one more thing be owned      
through years of avoiding death      
Not for the honor or glory it brings      
for there is none in possessivness      
but . . .      
from a paralyzing fear of loneliness      
born from a deep agony of loss      
Here we have it – the Known Unknown    
a vacuum of tangible loss coupling    
with living, regenerative energy    
Transformation shapeshifts circumstance    
from visible to a parallel universe    
of uncalculated cause and effect    
I currently choose this, now, Us    
but, how will we eventually evolve    
by turning right verses left    
Or, selecting a Friday evening movie    
instead of the usual Saturday matinee    
we’ve grown accustomed to seeing    
I read once that if we lived even 10,000    
lifetimes we wouldn’t have moved    
but a few granules from a mountain of choice    
If you think hard about it, it’s truth    
patterns of multi-dimensional being    
splaying as deltas into more of the same    
Infinite possibility born of a single decision    
and one more, and another, and so forth    
not in centuries, but mere seconds    
We return again and again to experience    
because next time we’ll turn left;    
and after that, perhaps stay straight    
It was once written    
that there was nothing new    
under the sun, no fresh thing    
that hadn't yet been done    
The reality of such a sentence    
spins eternally from reference    
we won't encounter twice    
Instead, we yearn to grow, learn    
what our alternate reality already knows    
as it cultivates our knowledge now;    
a parallel split of atomic energy    
from a singular Source of Being    
expanding thick as undergrowth    
That Known Being residing amid    
our Living waters makes Us human;    
the Unknown afterlife (w)hol(l)y Spiritual    
We come to realize through eons    
that Loss is just a term, a contrast    
of desire, possessive expectation;    
a false illusion tempting doubt    
We evolve deeper into ourselves    
by leaving it all behind in Death;    
our roots reaching toward Truth    
. . . an inch at a time during each birth;    
those many manifested Lifeforms    
we willingly choose to experience    
And that, Dear Reader, is scarecely    
The End    
. . .    
Written by Ahavati
Published | Edited 23rd Feb 2020
Author's Note
Inspired by my partner in all things, JohnnyBlaze. 💜

NaPoWriMo Series - more added daily.
Inspired by my partner in all things, JohnnyBlaze. 💜

NaPoWriMo Series - more added daily.

Italic References:

Last of the Mohiccans
Holy Bible
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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ImperfectedStone summultima ElrondSirfalas Poetikmind David_Macleod JohnnyBlaze Amorous_tryst DeadEyesStarlight to_be_me cchasecarver
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