Be the slow arc of sacred dance
performed barefoot in the dust
of ancestral initiation.
Your bones knew this before you did.
Be the rupture in celebration,
an earthquake timed like a revelation,
reminding you:
fear is a virus,
but You are the cure.
Be inversion-as-ritual.
Barstool yoga, clown wisdom,
and the absurd mystery
of finding gnosis in a decaying strip mall
with a Siberian dreamwalker.
Be the radiant double-light
of fireflies and Venus,
casting shadows where matter meets metaphor,
where even crabs act out resurrection
on the skin of a creekbed crucifixion.
Be causeless. Be the origin.
Be decay and devotion
pomegranate among plastic gods,
floating in cold water
on winter's first inhale.
Be the spiral ascent,
built in secret by the artist you saved
with language you didn't know was divine.
Be the dream wherein
you and the Frater Superior draft a new paradigm
for hypocrites and vampires to transmute.
Be the ant: ordinary, miraculous, faithful.
Be the greens: grown, given, grace-made.
Be the trickster-beast with red lips and justice teeth,
stealing back what was stolen in adolescence.
Be sweetness and death,
slow-simmered with star anise
on a night the sky turned off.
Be the broken machine that saves a life.
Be reflection and revelation.
Be the song across generations
that carries DNA as a melody.
Be the puzzle I never finish,
because the missing piece
was always this.
