Tied to the earthly plane by flesh and materialism,
By the demons of fear lurking in crevices of mind.
Inundated by pools of emotion, we drown repeatedly,
Feet never touching ground in enlightment,
Still, we are casualties in the ****** war waged by time.

Our Hacksaw Ridge, a ledge, we struggle to ascend,
Attempting a perilous climb, grappling mountains of uncertainty.
And troves of us fail, falling back to the gravitational pull of pain,
Victims of life, we are flummoxed by the chaos,
Running around like headless chickens,
Clucking senselessly, the entire time.

Nevertheless, we live to fight another day,
A spark of kundalini, coiled at the base of spine,
Unconscious of our inherent power, we are taken in by physicality,
The agonies beneath skin, insecurity and anxiety, crippling,
Stifling and overpowering, but not unconquerable.
An existential contemplation, we turn the pages of the book of life,
Wandering valleys of past experiences, unknowing of why.

The awakening is slow - questions like lava, broiling sluggishly in volcano,
Until it becomes a waterfall of fire, consuming every thought in it's path.
But these living flames have come to destroy only the system we built,
One that has long outlived it's usefulness and efficiency,
And is now a leash around the necks of us, whose eyes have been opened,
For whom these shallow fulfillments can never fill,
Whose spirits are restless and ready, now that the alarm has been rung.

This hamster wheel cannot replace the dimensional cycles of existence,
We are simply, running a race to nowhere, exhausting our wills.
Hoping to smell the roses, it is senseless then,
That we be constantly in motion, not knowing where we're headed,
But going all the same, until the wheel is wrecked by omnipotence,
And the secrets of sphere are revealed to conscious mind.

We have no choice in the aftermath, but to break chains,
To demand liberation, and force the hands of fate to open,
To perform discovery of self, an archaeological dig site of graves,
Becoming accomodated with death, it's skeletal fingers comforting.
Embodying the inner god, we make miracle of resurrection,
Laying hands on deadened souls, we come alive amidst darkness,
Casting life into body, we chase away shadows of doubt,
Becoming spirit in temporary skin, shining light on the journey,
Leading those who would follow, to the entrance of a true awakening.

I catch a glimpse of it the first time very unexpectedly.
Something distracts me from your shiny smile and i only notice a small little sparkle.

I watch you when you are beaten down and i see you struggle, but i never see you pull it out.
It is lodged quite deep, i see it one day when you're asleep, not vulnerable. You're just yourself when you're asleep.

One day i get a hold of it somehow. I know it hurts you, i ask if i should pull it out. You say it's not time yet. I ask you why. You tell me that the wound is still fresh. I frown, let me make it better, I say. 'You are.'

Over time, I feel it loosening up. When you get the good shivers while i stroke your neck, i watch it almost slide off. You don't notice it because I think you don't want to.

A few days later i see you watching your back in the mirror. The knife is gone. You smile a weak smile. You're about to say something but you stop, i know what it is. You would have said 'i weirdly miss it'. You keep it on the bedside a few days. It doesn't sit right with me, but it has to be done, for you.

A few fays later you drive me far away, we find a corner and bury it. We watch the last of it- steel, covered in blood, glint for the last time as we cover it with the last bit of earth.

You hold my hand tightly. We come home in silence. You cover me in a protective way. I tell you I'm sorry you went through that and i sob. You stroke my neck, in a way that gives me the good shivers. You tell me you wanted to do this for so long. But as much as it was hurting, you wished for it to be that way. You had to carry the pain till it became dull otherwise, you said, the **** already had a sharp knife i didn't want to make it deeper by holding a grudge. Why should i suffer alone, i used to think, you said.

But you look at me and say i think all a wound needs is some time to heal and some kindness. You say this is forgiveness, thanks for letting me discover it, i realise that what hurt me had to be discarded.

Pain internalised is grief accomodated.

You trail a dimpled finger down my spine and poke at a tender spot, i wince, looks like i stopped at the right time you say.