The Dark Shore

June 7, 2013 by Aspergers Girls 5 Comments

A ribbon runs through me, the infinite undone, conspiring and transpiring, unbeknownst truths served. I am as watcher of the sea, listening to her speak of wisdom as I stand erect on a shore with no end. The meeting point between water and flesh absent.

I wander to the extremes, thinking per chance the bridge will come, some absent dove waiting to honor his duty. And I drift, my feet not touching, the darkness enveloping, the ribbon-red spinning beneath my skin and temple, penetrating in a worthiness unworldly and undetectable.

To hear without listening, and to dribble, the portions of self out in fluid form without outlet for escape. I am this whispering brook building in potential and then bursting through the ground once dry, soaking into the soil of deep and riches. I dive down into the narrow avenues of suffocation, only to be rooted again into thy own self.

Here I cannot breathe and I beg for release, only to find the one I was standing ashore again, sucking in with absent breath the very parts of me removed. Again I rush out in the form of river, penetrating the mountains in my falling, a glorious spectacle of delight, each passerby washed out in my display; celebration sprouted.

As water I am neither seeing or being, and in this way I know not what I do, where I am, or who has found the essence of me. To know is to be lost again on the shore. To fall is to be found. And still I return, some victim to the waiting, standing in the starless night, staring at the shadow that ought arise.

And I linger, in my gown of shame, unworthy for the quest before me, with tools no longer attached where I used to discover aid. Instead, a burden so thick, I bend and break in the bounty of naught, inching along the breaking shore, hoping to find the touch of salt.

Here I am, I scream to the place of no place. Here I am, I cry, walking alone in the shadowless avenue. The watchers come, in their own ways, each carrying the absence of face, twisted onto self, and bleeding out towards the waters. Each of us the stream that carries the wisdom to the Mother; each of us a traveler unmoved in our moving.

I reach for you then, in the coming of your footsteps, though you touch nothing but the womb of air. The place of unbirth, the vessel that sends you through the fuel of the stars. My hand is unseen, for my image is invisible, erased before the coming of time. I reach further, creating something out of nothing, like the potter with clay, spinning and spinning to build upon the mud and bring forth a cup for collection.

To fill me, would be my refuge. My endless reprieve and receiving, the want of you. To pour the castaways suffering of All through the vessel of my made substance. Though to pour the stream through clay, is to again evaporate in mud of illusion.

How I long to hold within joined hands the substance of creation, if only to feel you against the flesh I have established. To forge through every facet of the earth to bring back the mineral you require. My goal not established, nor wished for, but made, as I am made from another, through the union of their very hands to Mother sea.

How I wait for you to crush me with your fingers, to formidably cut through the mask of ages, through the sludge-filled brown of searching, and form me. To make me vessel for your drink. To make me drink. Both the substance red and the action of sipping.

To bring self to lips and devour what has entered. And to then take you in my possession and cherish the cause we have suffered. To slip you into me, before you vanish into eternity.

Can you not see me drifting at the last shore to heaven; my clipped wings unyielded in their desire to fly; my heart a hole where you are meant to sit, as the observer of naught, and whisper, as sweet cherub, the secrets of the deepest waters.

For how am I to swim when I cannot reach the effervescent waters that beckon? When I am split into the channels of the veins of All and cascaded in the invisibility of reason undone; showering into the cavernous caves of doubt and mystery. Only to find my absence back on the dark sands of time.

How am I to fly, when my wings you have taken to binding and erasing, my back pulled out by spine, my knees unwound, and ribbon replaced where soul-want used to occupy. Is my house empty? Is my door closed? Are these eyes the last sands of your making?

Where is my cup to drink from? Where is my cup to form? Am I but this haven made for your ravishing? To be removed again and again, transformed into winged-being, only to be fed to the eternal rivers of nowhere?

Bring me the sea. I demand my filling. Bring me the roaring waves. Not the ebbing and flow of gentle lover, but the daring gruel of agonizing washing. The devastating unleashed destiny of crashing. Demolish me with the taste of purity, the ashes of humility, the ravishing endless plummeting of river rages turned green of sea.

Lift your tides upon me, and drive me down into the sands. Dance with me there, in the darkness turned bright. The light within the source of shadow returned. Bleach out the black with my wishes, so I might find the night in the day. And wish no more for the sun to rise.

For in being the light, I shall be the Father One, the Mother Eternal. I shall be all that was granted upon me when I threw self into the tormenting limbo of shoreline. I shall be reopened. The earth moved. The ground below shattered. Floating in the deep of All.