The Goddess Removes Her Mask
(for Moriyah, the Queen of Swords)
Said the knave to the Goddess:
The time must come when your final mask is peeled:
Then we shall see your cryptic face revealed.
No press agents nor public appeals to push outer limits
No managers promoting your star or your image,
No pleas over airwaves to spin near or afar,
Under a microscope of wisdom, your make-up,
Your face very politic, your soft fuzzy focus,
Your rose-colored filters washed clean and keen,
So that most of us, at last, can realize who you are.
Replied the Wise Crone:
What nonsense is this? Is it babbling or blithering -- I cannot tell.
I reveal the bearing of wrinkles so close that their character
Of my innermost caring, being charred, marked and scarred
On the skin of one's soul fantastic,
Neither flawless, nor beyond blemish,
Yet with strong sight lines of seeing,
Is a sight with few apologies or corrections to make
To deliver visions completely joyous and whole.
Replied the knave to the Crone:
Oh, I see. The roundness of your vision
Is reduced to sharp angles, to better delineate
Mindless idiots like me.
Said the Crone:
Tut, tut.
Don't flatter yourself.
(Enter now a vision of the Maiden, as if from another time)
Observed the wise Maiden:
Beauty is deceiving and cannot be tight perfection,
Luminously stretched over frames of untested experience, or eyes.
Here, at the feet of your mask's foundation,
Are moorings which hold fast to the ocean's floor:
Burns your inner flame, blazes without derision,
Sheds light brightly beyond emotion's convenience,
Tribal memories of guilt, shame, and blame.
The knave responds:
Huh?
Advised the Temple Priest:
To be steadfast in this bliss you have nurtured
Without hissing or complaint,
Without clutching or hoarding,
Without frothing or rage,
Without scalding or scolding,
Or one-thousand mind games
Is wakeful, is present, without makeup to smother
The sentience of lack, without glosses or mascara
Or admonishments from Mother, to blend in the gaps.
(The Priest continues)
These pale-colored concealers
Where you'd squeezed shimmer to sadness,
Or white into black --
Can hardly matter anymore,
As you just barely tolerate
The bleatings of the flock, or thy flick from thy flack.
Observed the unmasked Crone:
Speak simply, moron. You sound like a politician!
Crooned Divine Spirit, Cradling Gently the Goddess:
As shadows most impressive, these scars delineate fate,
Your blemishes as magnificent as any lines upon your face.
Your soul eternally youthful, your body wracked with pain,
There's no longer good reason to bleach the grays, to smooth the slate.
Who are you fooling, when your vision is timeless – ?
And your limitless sight carries news of a presence
More telling than any aging you might delay – ?
Being immortal, your body must die, and without its decay
Your spirit would perish, more trapped than alive.
Light which advances into tears of an unblinking eye,
Releases worries to cinders and ashes beyond your dubious hide.
You're born with folds and features, a howling newborn babe,
To die in time's easygoing wrinkle, no show, nor parade.
Ascending, freed from the carnage which shelters your flight,
You merge bright hope with eternity released from the grave.
There's little left to do -- or say -- to prolong this stay.
The party is over.
Pomp and circumstance spent.
The wine has been polished.
The pageantry done.
No opinions that matter. Your body quite useless.
No journeys to roam.
No lovers to flatter.
Freedom even your family won't reject or obey,
As your carriage, your chariot, your pumpkin fantastic
Ascends eons beyond fear, beyond night into day,
Your soul's sparkling princess now at last wholly seen,
Without slipper or prince, dancing with the Queen
Of Heaven streaming past your discarded garments...
...You're delightedly Home.
(All speak in Unison)
Amen.
(Copyright 2001 by Darius Gottlieb - No reproduction without express permission from the author)