Each of us is an infant seized
In the moment of labor spent.
We each are Samson, stained, restrained,
Chained between the pillars that confine us.
The womb of the mother god, Wisdom,
She holding us back from our awakening,
But we press outward, downward,
But we force, our desire to emerge,,
To be free of our old abode,
The hold of another's will,
The hold of another's thoughts,
To be free to become more--or less,
To be free of the cord that binds us,
That cord Umbilicus that makes us a part of Her,
Our breath her breath,
Our blood her blood,
Our life her life.
To be severed from the She that finds us
Being disgorged between her thighs,
The holy pillars through which all life
To leave the holy sanctum
To see with our own eyes,
To hear with our own ears,
To utter our own sounds,
Knowing this: That there is no going back.
Copyright © James Fitz-Gerald | Year Posted 2018
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