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There is a pulse beneath the skin
connects directly to the brush
and pen their flow when limits
of belief like tollhouse agents,
starved of wage and compliment,
abandon their small calling.

There is a place before the senses
jabber where the mindless has its
way with adjective and verb, pre-form
imbued with source of all vitality
to splash upon a page. The ancients
called their perfect timing ki.

There is an epic guarded by the Bull
of Heaven and his variants eleven
where man of Nature, friend to
woman, finds again his kingdom
borderless, he dons the seamless
robe she weaves to consecrate
the chronicles and libraries that
only seem at furthest ends of
wicked, like candle string,
imagination to have burned.

What use have we for limits
of exhaustion and of mourning
when the gates that set us free
have never closed? We only, for
a lark, in one small moment,
turned our backs.

The definition of metanoia varies, depending on the discipline that claims it. My favourite can be found here, with reservations.

Image: Enkidu and Gilgamesh slaying the Bull of Heaven

© Elaine Stirling, 2013