Grip the Throat

2.6.22

Grip the throat of it.
Grip it tight.

You are right.
You deserve control.

Your confidence looks on
with pride.

Wide eyed,
your doubt doubts only itself.

You are as correct as
the core of a solid boulder
the biggest tree
the promise of a four leaf clover
and me.

Hold on.
You mustn't let go.
Hold on.

It will be tough to steer
this body
through the storms that
will gale with gall.

So grip tighter
like it’s the last lighter
on an earth without fire.

Choke through the mire
and tie your hands around this throat.
Gloat.

You know best
better than the rest
by the gut of your chest
and the float of your boat.

Keep hold.
It’s the only way to stay whole.

Be bold
for if you let drift
or slack your wrist
you yield to the river
that is an ocean forced
through this thin crack in time
that we call Now.

No.

Fight against it.
Choke the throat if you must.
Crush out all breath
breath that is so much like the flow of the soul
slipping through Now
signaling surrender.

Render things yours
or dead.

Yes.

The throat is to your own head.
Do not hesitate, however.
Grip tighter still.
This is a war of your will
against time, God, and consequence.

To release is to fail
and to drown in this existence
having only been for as long
as you forced your own course.

To unclench is to become subsumed
by the whole of it.

To loose self
is to lose self,
to die a death before death.

Who needs breath?
And who knows what’s next?

Peace?
Perhaps.
But peace for whom?

Rail on, child.
Rail on for as long as you can
and when you have no more air
find a current and die there.
This is what you will do anyway.

And when you’ve died, come back.
Tell me of the other side.
I would like to hold it, too,
in my hand.