So wound in layered weave,
thoughts that strangle,
deeds that bleed,
and no matter my resolve,
the depth of wrapping endless,
when I delve within those layers of me.
Threads of joy and epiphany,
silken guides for eyes to see,
that within my layered clothing,
it is not all awry, a total surprise,
threads of coarse rope where life has all but strangled
is delicately nurtured by kind colored sighs.
For balance is found,
even amid my misjudgments and lies,
the paths that I aspired
and the paths that dragged my soul despised,
yet within this entanglement of weave,
there is enough color to appease my wrongs.
Those silken threads my mind in focus,
what I should see as righteous ways,
and pain is just another word for a lingering memory,
one that is learned and kept, conveyed,
for as much that rope has strangled,
it reminds me of the silk I’ve made.
I shun not the darker moments,
for they teach of light coming,
and the disruption gives us time
to breath another air,
change the necessity of a stagnant will,
that holds too fast to yesteryear.
Complex I am, an undulating movement,
from joyous glee to sorrow born,
all of which is light transformed,
and in acceptance I grow,
my soul to glow with understanding’s gift,
far beyond the rifts I saw
when first I observed my weave.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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