Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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Golden sunlight found me as I crossed the pond of discovery.
He sat on the edge of the rippling waters, ravenous, his eyes dimly set upon the dancing silhouette beyond.
I see him, as I see self.
I behold him, and fall into his eyes: deep.
Perchance believing they are indeed the exact corridor in which I become as I would, a true legion in the race I lead.
Perchance knowing his is the one made from the very turned stitching of my soul.
I can hear through his silence, feel the feathery wave of goodness entering my realm, where we sit as one beneath the grandfather oak, planted in our minds—joined.
He lingered there in substance, so very calm and deliberate in his effort, teetering between the thought of naught and the thought of ‘I am.’
I could find him, like the fisherman finds his wife—home, with the plate emptied and waiting for its filling.
I could find him still, the fragments of himself scattered across the clover that divided our departure.
For here he was again, in the memory I had opened, graced with the décor of a knight gone broken.
Here he was dwelling in the muck of unreasonable pain, awaiting the arrival of a someone less tethered than he to misery.
And she moved, this bitter-less me, vast in the way of the world, so that the light easily slipped through and cast the shadows further out of scope than earthly ways.
And he withered not then, at his glance upon my fair face, delicately set for his approval.
I winked with my heart, taking my place closer at his side, and knew then, in my delight for life, his too was found.

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