Variation on a Theme: The Transformation of Psyche

It was pain that lifted her off the ground.
With each that she suffered, she found
she was shedding off just a little more
skin, flesh, bone,
and all the weight they came with;

mind and more mind, she shut out,
and less and less they became
until her body mirrored glass--
clear and solid, ready
for reflection, to break
into pieces, into fragments
of likenesses, shrapnels of soul,
to shatter into

possibility.

Yet in resembling glass--
and parallels are limitless--
she only resembled glass;
for it is true what the gods say: nothing
is as it is. Fragile, she was strong;
and she was strong only as far
as she allowed herself to break.

This, Psyche understood, to the heart
alone does the soul succumb;
and in understanding, she shattered,
shattering into all that she could become--
hard surface and quiet stream,
air, dream, a pair of butterfly wings.

She brushed past distances,
erasing them; she flowed into healing tears,
became sky, abyss, vastness;
she refracted light and shadow,
catching glimpses of the self coccooned
in self;

she began to comprehend
disappearance; she discovered
weightlessness. Lightness

and light started tapping
at her edges, her edges giving
way and giving way to let
the light in, gentle ripples, sliver, golden;
mysteries, translucent, small
until felt;
wisp-like miracles, silent
until known.

Later, standing near the water
in trance, trembling, transformed,
she grew porous with brilliance
and became the word
Luminous.

Piano Sonata in C# Minor, "Moonlight", Ludvig Van Beethoven

It must be night, else I must be dreaming.

So, it is night. So, it is that the moon illuminates our loneliness and propels them round and round, brushing our arms and touching our cheeks, one living being to another. Our plights take flight and descend, sighing, into our ears, sending ripples of sadness across all that we do, all that we hold in our empty hands--hovering above half-finished coffee cups, grazing past barely-buried regrets, lightly touching the jagged tear in an unread letter, crossing a lamplit room teeming with stasis, swooping into hearts that plunge the unfathomable depths of suffering, echoing the unasked questions, moving past the boundaries of what can be known, swirling gloriously, unheeding of conclusions, yet, shining a light upon them.

If only we had eyes to see.

Souls tremble in containment, reaching for edges of moonlight, never rising quite enough to touch.