Sharpening One’s Etherealization

How Timid the Blade's Thrust.

From where does the storm's grip begin?
Does lightning need the thunder?
Does passion need boredom's consent?
Or
Is passion inherent in breathing,
Even for those who would spend their lives suffocated
By their own unwillingness to truly breathe?

Might the newborn sense such complacency,
This breathing of one's conditioned breath,
Unable to define one's own place,
Shackled by other grown-ups' lexiconic understanding
Open-ended descriptions kept isolated?

But know,
Feel,
Anticipate
Your personal flesh and suckling needs
Might be ignored.

Growing up will be a bitch!

Then acquiescence will take over.
Who wants it to grow up anyway?
Better to be kept like a society of ignorant parents
Controlled,
Led,
Kept in stalls of mediocrity,
Risking no loss,
No gain,
No disappointment.

But…

Someday you will ask,
Is that all there is?

And if you're lucky,
There will be a light.
The searing heat of the unknown,
The eruption,
The liquid seduction of pure rain,
The feel of moist warmth beneath your limbs
As you lay upon the earth to reflect.

Answers to the unanswerable
Begin to seep upward,
Revealing direction still available.

Will you be willing to listen?
To see?
To sleep with unfamiliar sunrises?

Ah

The deep breath.
The sharpening of one's etherealization.

Nirvana.