And though he did not know of them, he saw them thusly, with perfect sight.
Their enamored hearts set before he that was righteous with dignified love.
He cherished them innately, as the children of his womb, the essence that stirred him into delightful admiration.
For they were a part of him; their very limbs his arches. Their voice his song, unified and broken through, as earthly angels reborn.
Had he not come from this place of stillness, where the darkness spilled and splattered upon mind, he would be trapped still, in the place of blindness.
But alas, his kindled heart had blossomed, the spines of goodness branching out as vines of fragrance opened.
Across the walls of bricked-minds and shattered-hope he entered. The barriers removed, before mention; the warriors called upon with sounding trumpet, before effort; everywhere he walked, the moment ceased and time bowed down in recognition of its own reality and existence undone.
For nothing came in the scope of this determination: a careful love that pours through the wounds of thousands upon thousands, and champions the child broken.
‘I am that I am,’ he pronounced, with a seeming-to-live spell; though the chalice of his voice held nothing upon nothing: No motivation. No whispers of hope. Not anything tangible or definable.
All of which could be collected and defined was eradicated from the moment of suffering removed. And here, he sang, and danced in a rhythm of ghost unbreached, of substance removed and surrendered by the essence of naught. ‘I am that I am,’ he rang out, a bell upon the highest peek of non-temple.
And with this, he was vanished, into the air of delight, into the arms of no one, but his sweet gentle self, varnished in the lathering of dignified love.
May 2018, Samantha Craft