A Spell to Break Spells

by Tai Woodville

Natural as leaves fall from a tree

so the unreal falls away from me.

I create

my own atmosphere,

generate     

a warm glow,                 here

in my chest,

a sun within—

a sun which had grown dim

with passing clouds, that—like a fire    now—I feed.

My kindling, attention.

My touchstone awareness.   

I close my eyes, the better to see.

In the eye of the storm

stands the true me,         

stripped of war-torn

delusions.  

Natural as leaves fall from a tree,

so the unreal falls away from me.

My atmosphere is many colored,

radiating outward, reaching skyward,

Earthward,

expanding,

protective,

atoms dancing, interconnected,

sound as form             perfected,

even when appearances deceive.

A living tapestry    we weave

together.

Consciously, unconsciously,         

and everything in between.

Some days we sleepwalk,

all days, we dream.

Sometimes we wake in the moment

surprised         to be alive,                     

shaking the dust                      from our eyes,

a veil of tears                 that calcified

into a lie—

a twisted doubt

that tried             

to tell us we were small

& insignificant.

That if we were full of ourselves

it was a bad thing.

Let us be full of ourselves

so that our cells sing, full of the universal music

that is everything.

Natural as leaves fall from a tree

so the unreal falls from me.

This is a spell to break spells—

A spell to break the hell

of mental trappings,

cul-de-sacs & psychic loops

of self-abuse, a spell to break the trance

that distorts truth,

To break the chain of suffering

and pain.

We’ll take the gifts

and shift.

Shame kills.

Let us re-see         

the beauty

of our majesty,

not as parts          

of a dissected whole,

but as part   

of the sacred                  universal soul,

each being,                  a string,             

vibrating    

in concert             with everything.

Whether dissonant or resonant,

we       are        residents

of the infinite orchestra.

The soundless music that streams

through this waking dream,

audible only to the inner ear,

but                   palpable

as atmosphere, 

silent to those who will not hear,

but you can feel it                   within,

if you                  

listen,

a chord that carries

like a wave,

so you can rest

on its crest,

close as lips to breath.    

I tune my instrument

to the key   

of cosmic harmony,

freeing                 me

from the sensory deprivation

of the ego’s isolation,

of doubt’s degradation,

I trust fall   

into the sensation

of spaciousness within,

starry and calm

a night sky,

undulating

with Aurora lights.  

This is our right,

this inner space,

this grace

which none can take.

I reclaim my inner kingdom,

squatters, thieves and vagabonds, begone—!  

The heart, a throne—

once overgrown

with twisted vines,

graffitied and dust covered,

re-discovered                

now

as mine.

This is a spell to break the spell

of unworthiness

and fear,

free from which            I feel the hum

of my own atmosphere,

tuned to the music of the spheres.

Natural as leaves fall from a tree   

so the unreal falls away from me.  

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