Poetry

Falling Into Perfect

Control is like a twisted rope;
twisted hands unknowing build a noose.
What meant to lasso peace and conquer fears,
lassoed in a new song of abuse.

Love cannot be captured, can’t be taken.
Leaves fall off the tree and winter comes.
Love absorbed like water by the lichen
Is ushered in by music – battle drums

What man will do for love is just a shadow.
What man will do for fear is from the pit.
What I can do is small but it is precious:
I can love and fight in spite of it.

Letting go I fall up wells of darkness.
Light begins to eat the darkness whole.
As I fall my eyes land on the bottom:
the quicksand that was never my control

Freedom is found inside the falling.
Perfection is a person not a goal.
As long as I seek to know Perfection,
peace and love are mine without control.

by Caroline Shea

Sidney-1

( Image by Sidney Morgan)