on becoming the dead

the dead live anew in me
standing sentinel or roving bolom
have become used to casting my bones
on the board
know that once they painted
my cells this pattern
and that one

my hand reaches for the brush
they pause and smile
I want to paint to be the dance
they laugh and spit and become colours
spreading among each other
I paint them all over the mountain

then climb down
walk
begin again

it is a confrontation of spirit
an unresolved argument
years in the air above, a great knot
all this to be left behind

I hold Shiva's sword now
it is darkness sending forth
the slayers of my demon
and this light cuts like a diamond

I call for life
offer my past away
a weightless shocking freedom
I say yes and the forever ones rise up in me
weaving, mending, resolving
freeing me