Still as glass, polished as
A mirror; you stare into it.
Is this river, just a river?
The serenity of this place..
Washes over your tired frame.
You sit down on the shore,
Watching as others walk up,
And down the banks.
It reminds you of hot summer Mornings, wet with fog.
The smell of rain, and lightning,
Colors shifting in greens, oranges.
Peace. The torrent of your mind,
Silenced. Only slow moving water
Fills your senses, baptizing your
Very consciousness. Cleansing it.
Time passing behind closed eyes
With the calming sound of current.
Perhaps years have passed;
Decades, eons, you care not.
The clarity you feel,
Brings a smile to your lips.
Warm hands upon you,
Stirs your eyes to open.
There, a maiden sits.
A pitcher filled from the shallows,
She ladles the water over your
Bare skin, then washes you.
This comfort. This care,
It is the first time you remember,
Someone has touched you;
So tenderly, such gentle hands.
As the cloth crosses your feet,
A thick ichor runs from them
Into the river, blackened from the dark path you walked in life.
When she is done, and clear
Water flows from your skin,
She offers you further succor.
Bringing the ladle to your lips.
You eagerly sup at it,
Not realizing the thirst
you had from this journey.
Cool liquid on a dry mouth.
Thirst fully quenched:
Clean, and dry; thoughts buzzing.
Coming to the front of your mind
In concert, then one by one...
Sinking into the fog, vanishing.
Upon deeper reflection,
You can not remember any pain.
Done onto you, or caused by.
You smile, hoping everything,
Sinks into the fog and disappears.
Pain, cruelty, sorrow; your life.
Let it all be forgotten here.
The maiden bows her head,
She wades into the calm waters,
To aid the new voyagers.
Buzzing, and sinking. You walk.
Your feet and head, lighter,
All your burden: Gone.
You seem to be walking faster,
Than all the others on the bank.
Faster, faster, faster,
Your feet become light.
Smiling at fire, ice, fog...
You feel your body bursting.
You feel it. Warmth.
You feel cold, surrounded
By liquid, again.
Then you hear it.
A baby cries.
You cry.
The two sounds,
From your new lungs.
YOU ARE READING
Blank Spaces
PoetryAn emotive journey through the empty places we visit but never want to see. The pain, the heartbreak, trying to see hope in places there may be none. And the secrets, and yes there are always secrets. Can you see them in this dark empty space? So it...
