Dancing on Air
No fairy feet or ballet shoes for me.
Featherweight, albeit muddy-toed
and despite some remnant mortal baggage flapping about;
within the surround-choreography
of Mystery,
the limits of paranormal physics.
For the heart has wings
and can fly, my soul!
It has strings of a harp that sing
for joy, and can sling the lot
like a bolt from Thor
hefting it all aloft - to scatter disseminate, dissipate, irradiate
- along with the galumphing mind-bit,
dragging its grubby heels,
outdated programs and DNA
hubric dignity, abandoned.
A process of pure evolvement
gotten to it’s meta-tipping point;
nothing to do with the manic giddy-go-round
of moods, fear, stuckness, rotten timing.
The amorphous goo in the chrysalis
miraculously takes sudden shape:
it’s stygian incubatory alchemy done
sprung free on numinous wings,
a newborn butterfly.
June