It just hung there, rusted shut
Black as coal
Cold
Vibrations
Feeling's
That was not meant to be. I seized
My limbs frozen as if blocked upon
There reach.
Inscriptions placed in tongue
Of old.
"signati inter stratis universi"
I took my camera
Photos where as if nothing seen
Static,
White,
Blank
Visions of a black that cant be disguised around
Blossom of pink delectably spread around.
But beauty often hides the thorns,
That which is perpetual
That which seeps unto this world
Old,
Malevolent,
Malignant
Darkness that is like a whisper
Permeating into this world.
It is a gate,
A portal to a place that light does
Not enter or exit from this place.
The gate to......
I walk away as if hurried from this moment,
Ushered with a momentary....
"Where the hell am I"
"I cant ****** remember the last few days"
"I sense a smell of blossom"
I fell heavy as they tell me
"It's temporary"
I had hit my head some place,
I'll get my memories back.
I open my back gate and my hand retreats
As if knowing of danger,
But I once again reach,
"Nothing"
My head aches,
As I sleep I dream of pink blossom
I see the gate...
They find me three days later
Fear distorted upon my features,
Scared to death, died in my sleep, finger frozen
Out of reach,Scratched into my headboard
"The gate is open"
"The blossom has fallen"
**"The gate, the gate the ga............"

When we stop running away from ourselves,
by not trying to feel different,
by embracing our whole supposed poorness
and the feeling of not being loved and to suffer need,
with compassion for ourselves,
so if we stay in this way with every possible emotion,
without making the step into term, explain, judge
and finally also fight,
then we encounter ourselves for the first time.
Then we begin to make us familiar with ourselves,
as we would awaken slowly, slowly
from a sleep lasting since eternities,
as if we were only now, when we were not before.
Then a intimacy grows with ourselves,
then we see with our heart and not just with the mind:
God’s or Buddha’s love
is the same as the love for ourselves.
If we remain exactly by that, what we feel,
our heart will become so open, that no more separation exists,
because all separation happens only in the mind.
Then we see the perfect in the imperfect, the beauty in the ugliness,
because there is longer any place, where we would not be.
All we can see, is
always only we ourselves, always only we ourselves, always only we ourselves.
All we can love, we are always only we ourselves.
This not to see means to suffer.
What we see may seems to us like a curse.
Yet this gate to hell is a gate to heaven,
and opens up to us after long struggles far greater peace,
than any sweet threshold.



© Barbara-Paraprem, 2014