Languidly,
She waited for years for something to wake her up:
“At some point in my life,” she reasoned,
as she sat beside her window
gazing out onto a dirge like world,
“Something will happen– or someone will come,
and I will be shaken awake.
All of this past life will seem but a gray shadow
in contrast to the color and reality I will then see.”

Sometimes,
It was hot and the sun shined, scorching
onto the dusty cracking earth,
burning the tips of grass and children’s noses.

Sometimes,
There was a chill in the air and moisture heavy, hanging,
until frozen, it fell into white drifts and banks,
purifying and choking.

Sometimes,
It was balmy thick; windy electric;
until thunders exploded and lightning
streaked against the purple sky,
resplendent and dangerous.

Sometimes,
Flowers bloomed tender and soft on land an in tree,
perfuming the breeze,
pungent but brief.

Passively,
She watched it all from her window,
separated from it,
her heart grew sick with waiting
for her Jolting Moment,
when she would be catapulted
into the stars and walk among heavenly lights,
pure white,
or so she envisioned it.

“When will I rise from these ashes?”
she asked herself
feeling a hole creeping into her empty stomach.

A voice within her
whispered
with ever increasing insistence that
change was ineluctable.

Perched on the edge of her seat,
She prepared herself to move,
Once, twice,
she glanced over her shoulder at the view
beyond the window,
both blue funk catatonia and light-hearted buoyancy
inconsiderate or
weather, health or wealth,
assaulted her senses.

She threw up her hands to the heavens,
“How can I cotton to such a world?”
she asked the universe,
“Sleeping but clear sighted, I cannot,
I will not, dirty my hands in that soil,
to what avail?”

She sank, as she spoke, into final
exhausted
wretchedness.

Her head hung, she closed her eyes giving up,
at last, she dropped into slumber so complete
that raging tempest beyond thin glass
and nagging demon, prodding at her arm,
were both powerless to arouse her.

In sleep she saw a light.
In the light she saw a man.

His features were an untellable mix of
Pain and Hardship undergone
coupled stunningly with
Joy and Confidence.
She dared not approach such a man.

She did her best to push backwards into that
blinding light shinning
behind her,
before her,
beside her,
“Hide me!”
her voice came from deep within the
Hole in her Stomach.

He spoke.
She trembled!
Her spine prickled warning that
violence was afoot.

He spoke of his kingdom,
another reality that binds flesh and blood
to God, himself:
Turning human cells, full of darkness,
into light.

Each time he spoke,
her heart was wrenched from her body,
One part of herself was beat down,
as if she lay on a beach and each of his words,
carried the force of a pounding wave,
frothy with might.

Another part of her,
was lifted up, up, up
on those same waves,
Left fly into the lights of night
until she soared at great height.

“I can see his world!”
she thought.
“There, between the atoms of the one I have always known.
The man is king of that realm!
I could have just stepped into it.
But now it is too late.
For I am torn in two,
dying.”

And still the man spoke on,
His words thundering through her whole existence,
past, present and future,
He told about the power of blood,
Against a backdrop of violence,
bringing forth paramountcy everlasting.

He explained the virgin Reality,
everything upside down,
how he himself liked it.
The lowly and poor became uplifted Inheritors,
of everything good and golden
the strange king had to give.

She saw that people both
trifling and fragile in her terrene,
were carriers of
power and truth in his,
jealously treasured.

No longer wanting to push away,
with all her might, everything in her,
she threw her broken-in-two self
forwards, towards him,
hoping that she could be an
Inheritor, too.

The man raised his eyes to hers.
Their eyes met with fire and welcome.

Still slumped in her chair,
she jerked awake.
The gloomy, sometimes cheery
world still so real, out the window,
silence all around her.
Empty house.
Ticking clock.
Dripping faucet.
Her mind clear and silent.

Suddenly, she knew the name of the man
in her dream and she
whispered it into the
stillness around her.

“My life so far is mere verisimilitude.”
she thought,
“I cannot see him now but that man is truly the King.
He has woken me up!
I will live in his ubiquity.”

Finally awake, she stood up.
She stepped in.
She ran, she flew, it was good.
She tasted and saw, it was good.
She sailed and swam,
salt on her lips, wind in her hair and it was good.

Sometimes,
The sun blazed hot
burning her skin, weighing her down.

Sometimes,
The clouds were heavy with snow,
it piled up around her feet,
thrilling her heart,
until the cold lingered too long,
and she craved warmth.

Sometimes,
It stormed and she was thrilled, twirling
beneath dancing-light sky.

Sometimes,
The whole earth bloomed fresh,
perfume blossom spray,
thrilling
but passing quickly away.

Always,
He was there.

Puissantly,
she accepted it all, keeping stride
with stars and heavenly beings.
The once empty space in her gut
filling in perpetuum to,
over flow,
bringing élan vital all around her.

“Gone are the quiet days,”
she thought,
“It all seems like a dream,
that I sat so long in pools of myself,
so slow and heavy.”

Life was purpose.
Heaven was around her,
cleansing her hands when
they were soiled with action.

No demon poking at her arm or
tempest, raging
could take her back to languid,
or cause her to sleep again.

Her life was
made in dream.

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