Week after week I’d laboured, sprucing house from top to tail.
I’d burnt the candle at both ends, but now I drank a cup,
yet while my body’s work was done, my mind still blew a gale.
Up, up I flew and farther still; to the dizzying heights I reached.
Entranced by associative delight — until fright snatched hold of me.
Symbol, sign and metaphor, the flood my defences breached;
burst and scattered far and wide, connected teardrops in a sea.
Down I tumbled through the Blessèd Tree, my Soul set all-aflame,
and plumbed the darkest depths where dear Jung had dared to dive.
Scared stiff at such hubris and gripped by mortal shame,
I clung to a shred of sanity, and fought to stay alive.
The Angels’ timely intervention saved me from damnation.
They raised me up, brushed me down, and then they set me free.
And a mystic offered help to rebuild my life’s foundation.
But for their aid, I’m sure as sure, I’d still be under lock and key.
Only now can I look back without utter wide-eyed dread,
and learn from – even cherish – that bitter-sweet first home run.
With joy I close my eyes and dream, and in my vision see ahead,
Cosmos and deep Psyche’s twin lives truly are as One.
I know I've erred and fallen down so many times before,
And my well-worn coat’s all patched up, and yet again unravelled.
But every time I draw deep breath and head toward Destiny’s door,
And once again I set off, along this star-lit road less travelled.
~ ET. Yorkshire, England, © Saturday 29 August 2020.
Image: Thomas Gainsborough - Road from Market - Google Art Project.
Artist: Thomas Gainsborough (1727–1788).
Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
Image licence: Public domain.