/poems/and-beautiful-beyond-all-comprehension
AND BEAUTIFUL BEYOND ALL COMPREHENSION
Some they say, are too sensitive
Too fragile , too feeling.
They fare not well and struggle,
in the “real” world,
drowned by muggles.
How sweet, how charming, how vulnerable these ones.
Oh how we love to remark on their frailty.
And try to protect them from themselves.
Poor dear things.
Secretly we pity their naive, childish way.
Trusting all, loving all, seemingly unaware that life is so unkind.
Even though they fall victim to its insane pain, again.
And again.
And again.
And.
Again.
If only they could toughen up, we wonder.
Perhaps they are born broken or missed a vital lesson?
A blunder?
Perhaps they are just simply afraid?
Or artistic, or fey?
or soft, or lost, or gay?
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Some they say however, tell a different lore.
Not with words, but in quiet, graceful clumsy action.
A story that threatens us to the core.
For the authenticity of their heart is too real for which to bear, if we saw.
And so we assign them a moniker, a title or label
to distance ourselves from their table,
their tremendous truthful light,
far too bright
to behold, from the shadow of our fabricated safety.
And yet we hide our envy and desire,
to be that brave, that fragile
with such fire.
And oh that foolishly and hopelessly,
romantically and stupidly,
destructively, optimistically
relentlessly,
believing in the magic that we dare not believe in ourselves.
Perhaps in fact, they are the sense we deny.
Or that fragility is an ability?
That feeling is strength? Giving knowledge consent,
and tune to the song that they sing.
Perhaps we mockers are the poor dear things.
Missing out on the depth and breadth of existence.
The height and shape of life.
And that trusting and loving, without condition
without contrition,
is courage beyond our comprehension.
Our own belief, frozen in suspension.
Perhaps they feel such fear because only they
are brave enough to stare at it directly in the eye
as it crumbles in their gaze and loving kiss.
And cry endless tears that the blinding light of their soul
will cause pain to those stumbling, groping, lost in the pitch black abyss.
Perhaps they understand the only thing of value in a world of false treasures.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Maybe it could be, that those of us unbroken
remain unused, untried, un-endangered.
And unspoken.
Untested and pristine. We remain …un-sowen.
Unfilled. Unliving. Unaware. Un-blooming. And Unknown.
Some they say, can fill the heart even more once it is broken.
Broken open. Wide open.
Revealing the unfathomable depth of its capacity.
For those who know fear, and yet love nonetheless
are truly battered, bruised and real. Perhaps that is audacity.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
For what is joy and what is pain but mere feeling?
And what is feeling but a form of wisdom that can only be known through much?
That can only be known from having been felt.
Tasted and touched.
And once known, once felt, becomes the blood, the bones, the flesh and soul.
The fuel and the source of being, a Being.
A witness, a seeing.
Knowing all there is to know through feeling.
Scarred, cut and bleeding, reeling.
Having quiet attention.
And beautiful beyond all comprehension.
