Pandora

I feel light when I look at her.

In that space which is everything

and encompassing, I see her,

past the chatter of her personality,

into the highlight of her dream.

I see the light, that is there,

this steady glow like the sun,

and when I pull away

there is nothing to fear,

for the memory of her true

self lingers again. Until —

she is back as the box,

as the trappings,

as the eggshell.

the thing is,

even as an eggshell,

she is beautiful.

because the light from within shines.

and there is nothing to hold back what is

true and everlasting, quintessentially god.

break the eggshell,

and you loose that symmetry,

but keep, it you hide what is.

which should be held onto?

The within or without?

The truth or the careful

capturing of truth,

protection of truth,

truth in a box.

And what do I feel when

I focus on one or the other?

What am I supposed to feel?

What am I supposed to be?

Be I my own eggshell

round the light that is me,

or do I find the edges

and imagine beyond.

Do I become what I want to be,

or be what I see,

or be what is beyond sight?

Do I be the shell,

the backdrop behind it

or do I go within and be the light?

Can I be all?

Or must I choose.

And when I do so choose,

to what do I limit myself by

in that choosing.

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