CROSSING OVER

I keep crossing over and then crossing back again. There is no longer a start to this end. I can no longer deny my calling as I walk the path that now lies in front of me with a lit candle. And play pretend. I put my rain jacket on. Even though I weathered the storm, the scent of rain kept me warm.

I keep crossing over and coming back, noticing that everything that hides in the shadows is neither white nor black. There is no evil, no good, just the lies and truth that are made to be misunderstood. There are no nightmares there are no screams. All we hear are whispers and shouts.

I love crossing over and taking that trip to hear the church bells that once rang for me while my hell was calling me back to stop and smell the wildflowers that grow while charting the path in petals of the roses that no one knows.

I cross over to find the warmth I seek and the coldness that they want me to speak. I look at the birds. Swarming in the sky as I cross the bridges of the bones of the souls who were lost along the way. I will get there myself someday and sit down to listen to the symphony of angels and demons play.