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Ascension in Gold
Firewalkers on the coals
of many lives,
some yours,
some mine and
all in step with
the immeasurable,
the unknowable,
the ungraspable Light,
who will we be when
the world is done with us?
October burns down
in the weariness of
lavish survival,
one last molten breath
from the silver void—
October with its soft bite
and hard promises,
dispersing mists of saffron,
diminishing circles of hope,
landing on this moment,
here on the outskirts
of our true desires,
here where anything passes
for reality,
here where lies blink
in and out of Truth till they
are interchangeable;
ripples on the original sea;
a dizzying collision . . .
All blurs to fear.
The lake folds and
wisks away
the bleary remnants of
the maples.
Look. There it goes:
the illusion—
drifting replica of a life,
floating poser
in a gallery of ghosts.
It can no longer have us.
To live beneath the surface
is to rise.
Patricia Joan Jones
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