They walk in the dark.
Mud sucking at their feet.
Sometimes murky grey light swirls past, making them smile
and lift their heads a little bit.
But whenever the dark returns
They forget the grey.
. . .
Sometimes
A flash
Of blinding white
Shocks their senses
Blinding with terrible ecstasy
Like Paul on the road to Damascus.
And then they see.
Their world is not an ever-shrinking fishbowl full of swirling black and grey and the echoes of their own voices.
It is vast, far, far beyond themselves
Terrible in its genius
Agonizing in its beauty
The one true work of art.
And they are deeply connected to it.
They are of critical importance in the masterpiece.
But they are not the whole masterpiece.
Nor is the masterpiece the Artist.
The Artist knows the masterpiece,
And despite our minute size,
The Artist knows our part in the Dance well
Knows we cannot dance on shifting ground
In the mud
In the dark
Alone.
So
There’s light.
There’s firm earth.
And there is a hand,
Reaching out,
Made of blinding light.
Mud sucking at their feet.
Sometimes murky grey light swirls past, making them smile
and lift their heads a little bit.
But whenever the dark returns
They forget the grey.
. . .
Sometimes
A flash
Of blinding white
Shocks their senses
Blinding with terrible ecstasy
Like Paul on the road to Damascus.
And then they see.
Their world is not an ever-shrinking fishbowl full of swirling black and grey and the echoes of their own voices.
It is vast, far, far beyond themselves
Terrible in its genius
Agonizing in its beauty
The one true work of art.
And they are deeply connected to it.
They are of critical importance in the masterpiece.
But they are not the whole masterpiece.
Nor is the masterpiece the Artist.
The Artist knows the masterpiece,
And despite our minute size,
The Artist knows our part in the Dance well
Knows we cannot dance on shifting ground
In the mud
In the dark
Alone.
So
There’s light.
There’s firm earth.
And there is a hand,
Reaching out,
Made of blinding light.
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