I am a closet poet.  The poetry lives in my head and rarely do I actually write it down, much less share it with others. It’s an intensely private facet of my personality. One that I’ve never been able to share with anyone as I’ve always had an innate desire for it to remain private.  During my recent quiet period, I started writing and journaling. I had heard many times over that this daily ritual could prove to be very therapeutic. I found that to be true. . .What I didn’t expect to find was that it’s also fantastic way to rediscover things about myself that I had forgotten, or had discarded as being completely useless.   

When I started journaling, I wasn’t having a creative block or anything. . .It was more of a crisis in consciousness. I’m 39, the jumping off age for the proverbial “mid-life crisis” experience.  On or around my last birthday, my days were becoming plagued with the usual questions one asks themselves during this approaching period, “What will I do with the rest of my life?” , “How can I make a difference?”, “Am I set on the right course for full-filling my soul’s purpose?”  I still don’t know the answers to these questions but I think if I keep journaling, the answers may reveal themselves through my chicken-scratch text.  In the meantime, I’ve set some goals for myself.  Topping that list is the sharing of a poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago. At first, I didn’t know what it was about because I wrote it so quickly that it seemed to have a life of it’s own. It poured through my fingertips and onto the paper almost as though someone else had written it.

I’ve studied it a bit since and now I can see exactly what inspired it and where it came from. I won’t tell. . .That’s my secret and the mystery behind it’s writing is some of what I think makes it appealing. So, I’ll leave the interpretation up to those of you who read it. That is the beauty and enjoyment of all things art related. We as the beholder of artistic work can decide what the artist is projecting, right? Having said that, I think I want to use this  amateur piece of poetry as inspiration for a bead that embodies it’s message. 

The point behind this post is two-fold. I want to share what I consider to be a personal revelation in hopes that you will find the inspiration to explore some of the talents or dreams that you’ve abandoned through maturity. Most often, they don’t actually die on the vine. . .They are only dormant and patiently waiting for a change in season. 

The Martyr

by Lydia Muell

Blue cast shadows on dew kissed window panes

radiate from palms that reflect one thousand ancient cities.

A messenger of sacred truths.

New form taken, veiled in silken moonlight. 

Bare feet travel nostalgic moments in time-washed cobblestone.

Duty bound to Heaven’s stars.

Screams not heard through tight clenched lips.

She prays, a hand to heaven a hand to heart.

Radiant glory, a sunken treasure beyond the shores of watery dreams.

On pearly beaches she waits for the tide of luminescent hope.

Crystallized tears eclipse kaleidoscope irises, riddled with fractured passion.

Through birth of morning she stands on shaky knees, in a crown of golden sunlight.

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