Innocence regained

I. The Origin

I have always existed, they tell me,
like a shapeless infinite
or an idea of eternity,
soaked in timeless wonder.

Weakened limbs and fledgling wings
dipped in a blue blood – the water
that still carries the primordial cries
of unborn thoughts and unsung civilizations.

An unwanted evolution
that carved me into a mirage,
a reflection of origin, of truth,
and also of something grand
like the vision of innocence.

II. The Ocean

The story unfolds
in the folds and wrinkles
of the great unyielding rock,
aging and decaying as it breaks
reluctantly into small rugged images.

I, like my peers tried to battle the flow
holding my ground with ingrained roots,
a tenacity borne of sediments of time
under the waves, nurturing and violent.

Unaware of the erosion of my doubts,
I winced when the weak drifted to the dark
and then rejoiced my fortuitous survival.

Polished to a shine, I danced, frolicking
under the gentle caresses of mother,
a god of tides on a shore of consciousness.
Lapped in her breath and feeling loved
I remained in bliss, my conscience burnished.

III. The statue

Why then did you create the grounds
I asked the god, mother who let go of me,
a world beyond my world and its hands
that smelled of reason, of sweat and war.

They plucked me from the pristine embrace
and guided me towards an unquenchable thirst
for knowledge and a discovery of innate evil.

Bruised, probed, and examined for years,
scalpels of right and wrong and
chisels of science and art
gave me a shape, a rigid form
as I transformed into a man, standing alone
at the altar in the middle of nowhere,
a statue in the town square.

The center of attraction and deference
I stood discerning the facade, vying for a glance,
for an unassuming love, a kiss of fleeting interest
and on lonesome nights I looked up for a sign
waiting for rain, or even a few dewdrops to hide,
a bolt of destiny that might shattered my anguish,
as I mourn the loss of innocence.

IV. A reincarnation

It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness
and the feather it dropped is probably fantasy
as on the vestiges of my loss grew tendrils of
a few insipid dreams, fragile as a tentative faith.

The bliss I search now is not in ignorance,
or despite the despotic logic that refutes
and mocks, it’s not in my dreamy escapades.
With a unfounded resolve I delve deeper
into the excavations of the lost cities of innocence.
Nothing deters me, not the aches of a lost limb,
of the lost wing that once carried a purpose, of life.

At the end or the beginning of another origin
a reverberating voice speaks, to me,
speaks like me, rising without pain
from the ocean within, piercing the
stone that is now the rational heart.
Continue to read on Olive skins