The Heart Of The Story Poem by Rod M.Peters

Getting ready for the breakthrough,
The fateful eclosion from the ragged skin
I unfold my weather-beaten wings
Once more and for the last time,
Unable to resist the beckoning
Of the cold blind Angel
(A blind Angel is not distracted by Form) ,
Aching to unburden myself from myself,
Let go of the wearied, jaded mirror image
And take the leap off the farthest cliff.
I bid my beloved 'good night'
For I'm headed for the break of Dawn,
Where the first undying tulip
I will ever set eyes upon
Cupped her golden hands
To save a kernel of grace for me.
No mere longing, nor poetic reverie,
But the call of the thicker blood
Pounding on fledging vein,
Crying for the leeway to flow again,
And though many years were wasted
In sophistry and self-deprecation,
There's always a last call to take up arms
And march on,
On to the clearer sphere of new yesterdays
And old tomorrows.
There I will meet you, on the wheel's Hub,
On the Heart of the Story.