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The Mess I've Made


I don’t expect the maker to just hand over the keys to the kingdom after what she’ll find when she looks up and down the mess I’ve made of her.

This is about Love. This is about how beloved I’ve held her. She is the most exquisite work of art ever created and I want to dump what into her waters? The one thing, the one gift I should have kept most sacred. She is, after all, my beholden. She allows me my breath for truth and affections and lies and greed and foul uses of the air, tainting the water and despoiling the sacred ground. If my words do not change course, Mother, Grandmother, Great Grandmother will soon lose her want of me, then where will I go?

This is about me and the love of that which is most sacred. See her cry for my attention? She is gasping for patience with her wayward child. Won’t I open my hoodwinked eyes? It is I that she needs. Don’t I recognize her magnificence? Don’t I remember, the long winter nights of well fed laughter around a campfire, surrounded by my family, the veins of the one seed, original man? Give thanks for that which I cannot know, for that which I should never have questioned. Give thanks for breathing, thanks for growing, the joy, the laughter and love, and all that sustains me.

This isn’t about belief. She’s right beneath my feet. Bow.


© 2011 by mark prime

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