Heart Attack

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Like Job I had a prideful heart. Now it is a sharp ache turning against me. Me, or my sin? I need only to surrender and yield fully to my Redeemer, yet instinct says to prolong both pain and pride. Fit to survive. The next deep breath may cause the beat to quit and go some place new where breath is everlasting. Yoga is little more than the art of dying. A lyric passes through my mind:

It is impossible

But we keep trying to separate

The living and the dying.

(Die to yourself today and let the past pass away. You asked about the nature of the period.) Nudges Jesus.

Los Amores know the answer to why travelers move so ill-contentedly searching a way out of their souls they spent on their flesh and blood and the vile beings that turn soul bits into silver coins and good obedience into tenderloins. Here I want to stop, my hand is limp, the prophet gone and left his nymph as a corpse in cradle in faraway castle with vague mumblings of happily-ever-after when the whole world will know and all will be saved except the dead beauty who always believed. What a sacrifice, our bride in the tomb, if only she’d given the quill to her groom.

Remove from me the dark side of the rainbow, thwarted cha-ra-ra-BOOM-dee-yay’s, and dilapidated two-storied carousel barns missing their staircases with cobwebs rounding the obtuse corners like archaic calliopic echoes. Sad and horrifying and out of tune. All I need now is to bathe in a sunshower on warm stone in that special crepuscular light that washes the Rocky Mountains and heaven once in a lifetime.

©2012, Amaya Engleking

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