Like the smooth skin
Of the blind finger
Feeling it’s way to the message
So it is with The Grimoire
.
All she can do
Is imagine its thick leather surface
Rippled with gold foil
Balancing its heft
Upon palms of outstretched arm
In center of mind’s eye
.
All she can do is pull it in close
And take in the spectral aroma
Of woodsmoke and incense
Visioning what
Struggles and twists to become
.
Such a troubled birthing this has been
Starts and fits and ends
Over and over, trying to complete
Over and over, attempting to download
Conceive
The message
Too large, whipping with tendrils
Of eons and voices and symbol
She can’t even comprehend
.
Messages
From long ago
This pen and paper attempting
As lightning rod
For a thousand hungry-ghost cloud
Looming, circling, beating
Yearning
To enter,
Yearning
To tell
Wishes
Of hoping
Pleading
Final release
.
Many lifetimes
Many medicines
Many…evils?
They clamber
Vying for one electric stream
Attempting in such capacity
To fit into one tiny arm
It shakes, it aches
And mind trembles
Finally collapsing
Into blankness
Again
.
Squeezing her Will
Under quivering hand
She feels, faintly
A loose form
Starting to rise
Again
Perhaps, today
Again
Somehow it will embody
Those gilded edges
That smoke-blessed page
Perhaps, today
Again
It will make it through
.
But, she shudders
What be its cost, madness?
The price of birth, death?
Will body frame crumble
Leaving only book behind
Switching place of essence
Book to form, scribe to wind?
.
Only these types of questions
Soothe her while she stares at blank page
That such a channeling
Is really of grand importance
That only gods and demons and
Threats of death and annihilation
That only the battles of all lifetimes
And the resistance to Sacrifice
Again
Can explain
Letting Go 