Letting Go
A dimly lit highway channels the heartbeats of travelers and dreamers under pale city lights. Fixed lanes and vying wheels trek under the pitiless eyes of the night, paying their tolls. Some speed through, with schemes in the dark, dreams, and demons hidden, running from dusk to dawn, on and on.
Wandering among these incased souls was I, with a hammer and hope. I strike and pry at my nomadic heart in the glow of the stereo’s ambient light, mining for a vein of golden truth in my dark soul. I disentomb my old hope, my old love, my ancient longings that never go out of style—that olden noble eagle with a wounded wing. Let’s fly again, my old friend, and this time to the end.
On his tattered wings, we flew high into your sky, gliding down into your dark road with the wind in my hair. I’m sixteen again, in my '71 black Pontiac--Ventura highway--the turbo fire peeling down, smoking my tires.
I drive slowly by the seeking eyes as you peer out through the shields of your soul. My window inched down, and Boston’s “Hitch a Ride” …on the radio. I released my muse that mingles in your dreams, cracking the chilled cynic, that icy sentinel of your soul that guards your catacombs of frozen hope and stirs your sleeping purpose that longs for your warm presence, your resurrection.
I sang a prayer aimed at your soul; it floats like a feather on a righteous wind as you study your pain, working those endless ends, the storms, and the calculus of a deep heart. I whisper my wish, my wounded hope on the breeze, to nudge the equal sign on those fragmented visions dreamed in that mysterious, majestic quest, the sound and fury of your soul.
With that nudging touch, I prayed you'd find that key to ease your yearnings and rest your mind. The message is fashioned to evade the guardians of your stains and pains, vaults, and walls you've labored to fix so justifiably high. The prayer is over the walls, diving deep into your vortex, embracing your striving depths like a warm blanket on your soul, whispering shameless truth, finding you dreaming in that circular cell, the preoccupation with the chains of fear. It gives you the strength to open the cage from within and break free from the dizzying spin.
But you would not let go of the darkness and turned your porch light off. I tore myself in half. Back on the road, I'm a nomad again. I kept my wounded wing, the only gift I have, my faults, my memories safe, my prison more gentle than yours. My demons and dreams are still a mystery to me.
I hammer the steel of my cloven heart back into place and stare forever into the vacancy I kept and protected for you. I pray for grace as I drift alone into the night’s moonset. I am so old and wish to let go of the iron-heavy past, but this world is so “enlightened,” conjuring karma for me like an unborn child of fire.
I flew back into my mountains, my sacred retreat, leaving the child of flames behind with my treasures, born and dying in the valley of your raging soul. I see the weakening levee. When the flood comes, I take no joy in my survival. Because I wish you were here and your shields were down there floating away in the torrent.
Thank you for reading my Substack. And remember:
It is the glory of God to conceal a matter and the glory of kings to search it out. Proverbs 25:2
Background for the vocal portion is from Joachim Heinrich - Sleep
For the outro — of course — U2’s Bad.