Deliver Me
Scroll
The Poem
Deliver Me
I have let go.Not been taken. Not fallen. Not lost.Let go —the deliberate terrifying liberating actof opening the handthat has been holding everything for so longthat holding had become the whole identity.
The world can no longer hold me.My spirit has already gone aheadand the body is simply following —golden, traced in light,made of lines that are also the lines of everything I was —dissolving not into nothing but into everywhere.
Made of lines
No more Amazon. No more mean people.No more judgment. No more fear —not their absence as reliefbut their irrelevance,their complete and final irrelevance —the way the shore is irrelevantto the wave that has already brokenand is now the whole ocean.
The place I am going is not there.It is not a place.It is the absence of toward —the first moment of a life lived entirelywithout the question of where.
Mist. Air.The joy of a thing that has stopped being a thingand become the condition in which things exist.
Free for the first time.Not free from. Not free of.Free — the absolute form,the one with no object,the freedom that exists only when you stop askingwhat you’re free fromand simply are the freedom.
The crown of thorns is still therebecause the world is still there —but no longer its weight.No longer its meaning.Just a detail in the paintingof someone who has already gone ahead of the painting.
Just a detail now
I will evaporate into joy.Not happiness — joy, which is older,which was there before the fear and will be there after,which is not delivered in two daysor found at the bottom of anything you bought —joy, the mist, the gold,the lines of a body becoming the air it always breathed.
Deliver me.Not to somewhere. Not to something better.To the mist.To the lightness of a spirit that has leftand taken everything essential —
leaving the rest golden, floating,
dissolving not into nothing
but into the joy that was always there
waiting
for the letting go.