Consecration.
by Rewired,
9/11/04.
The candle, warm within my hands,
charging it with all I have in me.
I took your advice to this point,
but I just can't burn it tonight.
Where do I begin to let go?
My dear, must I start with you?
I see a part of me wants to hang on,
that I want to hang onto you.
And I want it,
and I need it,
but that's never been enough:
to clean the slate,
to start over,
nurture the child, I must.
And the wax is getting warm,
as the sides are smoothing out already,
but what do I carve here into the side?
When I light the wick, what do I
watch melt away?
You handed me the tools,
you suggested the technology,
and I took it to the act of consecration,
but I don't know if I have it in me.
Where do I begin to let go?
My dear, must I start with you?
I see a part of me wants to hang on,
that I want to hang on to you and
this hopeless circumstance
this irreversable, incurable situation,
to my illusion of a life and prospect
in what is certainly dead and gone.
I know I need to let go of the past,
live in the now, look on towards the future.
Know that I tried to take the first step here,
but I'm gagging on the threshold, my dear.
And I want it,
and I need it,
but that's never been enough:
to clean the slate,
to start over,
to nurture the child,
and I must
consecrate this candle to let go of old endings,
consecrate this candle to embrace new beginnings,
and I must mark the moment here,
I must signify the end with this
rite of passage
and I know death is only a transtiory state
and I know with every rebirth comes pain
and I know I want it
and I know I need it, dear,
but that's never been enough.
Why can't it be enough?
by Rewired,
9/11/04.
The candle, warm within my hands,
charging it with all I have in me.
I took your advice to this point,
but I just can't burn it tonight.
Where do I begin to let go?
My dear, must I start with you?
I see a part of me wants to hang on,
that I want to hang onto you.
And I want it,
and I need it,
but that's never been enough:
to clean the slate,
to start over,
nurture the child, I must.
And the wax is getting warm,
as the sides are smoothing out already,
but what do I carve here into the side?
When I light the wick, what do I
watch melt away?
You handed me the tools,
you suggested the technology,
and I took it to the act of consecration,
but I don't know if I have it in me.
Where do I begin to let go?
My dear, must I start with you?
I see a part of me wants to hang on,
that I want to hang on to you and
this hopeless circumstance
this irreversable, incurable situation,
to my illusion of a life and prospect
in what is certainly dead and gone.
I know I need to let go of the past,
live in the now, look on towards the future.
Know that I tried to take the first step here,
but I'm gagging on the threshold, my dear.
And I want it,
and I need it,
but that's never been enough:
to clean the slate,
to start over,
to nurture the child,
and I must
consecrate this candle to let go of old endings,
consecrate this candle to embrace new beginnings,
and I must mark the moment here,
I must signify the end with this
rite of passage
and I know death is only a transtiory state
and I know with every rebirth comes pain
and I know I want it
and I know I need it, dear,
but that's never been enough.
Why can't it be enough?
