Singer

Why pout and be offended
when you could be drowning
each cell of your flesh
in the scandalous wine
of the Goddess,
every atom licked up
in a flame of sweetness
as her infinitesimal lightning
threads up your spine?
In our human core
is a secret fuse
whose instant spark will singe
your outraged brain
to a breath of ashes,
the grace of Mother Shakti
so ruthlessly tender.
Fling your story into the night
and be done with it.
The wind will scatter all
your dreams into glittering
emptiness.
You are so much more than
this argument snarling
in its little loop
from one life to another,
and you’ve never really
been angry at anyone
but yourself,
mad about one problem
over and over again:
your failure to Be
who you already Are.
All this fury is just
your mind, not your soul.
You are a never-ending song
with no refrain,
and your first blue note
is the whole sky.

Art: Canens, Roman Goddess of Song, by EBF 2008