By Aine:

What if...

My body is really me.

What if...

I am just what I see.
A thing of blood and flesh and bone,
Truly me, not what I own.
A thing that bends and runs and sits,
A thing that breathes and pumps and spits,
With arms that reach and grab and hold,
Nails that tear, fingers that fold,
A thinking, feeling, hunk of meat,
From hairy head to boney feet,
A thousand meshing little parts,
Epitome of mechanic arts,
A wonder, running without fuss,
That heals itself, with scabs and pus,
And using eggs and blood and semen,
Makes in its image--another human,
A thing, that loves and laughs and cries,
A thing, that lives...a thing, that dies.

And if...

This body is all that's me,
Than, I am doomed, ultimately,
Squeezed from darkness into light,
Kicked from daylight into night,
Filled with hope, from time of birth,
To only end, a lump of earth.
In the mirror, and my statement,
I see the source of my depression.
In wrinkled skin and sagging jowl,
In tired eyes and bitter scowl,
In faded hopes and labored breath,
I see there's nothing beyond Death.

But, what if...

I am something else.

What if...

This body is not myself.
Somewhere, in my heart, I know,
I can't accept the final blow,
As all there is...all that can be,
I feel this body is not me.
But, what am I, if not...this,
This voice, these eyes, this heart, this breath?
Something hidden deep inside,
That shines, with love and hope and pride,
Something bright, that does not die,
When Death pulls out the final sigh.
A being, whose transcendent songs,
Needs no vocal chords or lungs,
But, makes of them an instrument,
For music, that is earward sent,
A being, who can take these feet,
And move them to a spirit beat.
I need no mirror to percieve,
That I no longer need to grieve,
The impending touch of Death,
Will end it all, with the last breath,
Of this, my wonderous 'body suit'.
Fear of loss has become moot.
Death has a natural role to play,
And from this suit, at end of day,
Releases all, and makes me free,
To choose another 'body me',
To dress in for another life,
Of joys and sorrows, hopes and strife.
Or Death, another part can play,
Can be a door, a gate, a way,
Into a realm of transcendence,
Where thought is song, movement...dance,
Where each spark of divinity,
Has wisdom and joy...eternally,
Where age and sickness take no toll,
And I can dance...a skyclad soul.

Posted By: Hecate She Ra Bast

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