Table of Contents
Jump to Part 1
Those who taste only the bright are blind in one eye.
They gorge on what stuffs, sates, and slakes, then cringe when those foams lie.
Hunting the foams, they roam through the vault.
Great distances, they crawl, just to taste that holy salt.
Silverware, dull ones, they say, and not the brilliant, pretty ones.
Plain, ugly tablecloth, they say, and not the rich, thick bowl of broth.
They, who demanded fresh flowers, not the wilting ones.
They, who demanded sweet cotton candy, not the bitter brandy.
They with their lullabies
They with their harmonies
The same they.
So, child, is it any surprise you burst and filled with irony?
Truth roars in a hundred cries.
Growth hiccups in a thousand sobs.
The reward is the breeze of a million sighs.
For clarity and dichotomy, disparity and polarity, they were willing to gobble up all the world’s throe.
For sincerity and dishonesty, peculiarity and regularity, you were willing to vomit out all of your grow.
That which expands and constricts through life
but they’ve glued and joined,
we’ll break and split.
That which freezes and ignites through blood
but they’ve bound and coupled,
we’ll cut and tear.
So, is it any surprise the process hurts?
Is it so perplexing I embrace opposites?
You know the answer, child. That’s why you’re here.
Through distinctions and contradictions you’ve come, to the end, to the seer.
For birth has no bearing in hearing
the million sighs as a million sighs.
For origin doesn’t limit the power of hearing
the thousand sobs as a thousand sobs.
For roots do not rob anyone from hearing
the hundred cries as a hundred cries.
Therefore, you see.
The equinox and paradox, orthodox and heterodox—
—you see, you see.
The justice and avarice, service and malice—
—you see, you see.
When they confuse, you will separate.
When they muddle, you will order.
When they clutter, you will untangle.
So come, my child.
Take the sword you’ve become and see things for what they are.
Life rots, blemishes, mourns, struggles—it flourishes.
Blood clots, perishes, soars, manifests—it prospers.
When there’s scariness, there’s tenderness.
When there’s cacophony, there’s harmony.
Your being a sword means not you’re malign.
In fact, more than ever, you help all align.
This is the mystery, the alchemy, the subtlety.
The chemistry, complexity, simplicity, multiplicity.
Seeing the darkness never precludes the light.
Light has no place where darkness can’t take flight.
So you outshine
You aren’t blind in one eye.
Your eye is the Eye
and that Eye is the Eyes.
So, answer the cries, sobs, and sighs.
You’ve burst and filled,
first and second.
Turned a slashing sword third,
to last join the Eclipse.
© 2022 Ithaka O.
All rights reserved.This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
— The End. —