Poems by Rose

Revelation

 

I had a vision veiled in light,

behind the border of my sight—

not dream, not sleep, not wish, not prayer,

but something living through the air.

Seven winged lights appeared to me,

a sacred, soundless company.

They swayed and swirled, then one by one

drew near—as though to be known—

then gently parted, opened wide,

and let the Ancient pass inside.

 

Then came the earth-colored light,

with royal calm and humble might.

Not soil, yet old as Eve’s Garden,

before first footsteps pressed its ground.

It wore no crown, it made no claim,

yet every color bowed the same.

Its power had no need to speak;

the air grew still, the heavens meek.

It carried gravity without weight,

an age no measure could translate.

 

Then came a pull I could not name,

not born of fear, nor edged with pain,

as if my being split in two

while both sides clung, still close, still true—

like magnets made to stay as one,

yet drawn beneath a stronger sun.

Not torn apart, not forced to go,

but coaxed beyond what flesh could hold,

until the part of me that knew

released its grasp—and upward flew.

 

Then from my heart the thread appeared:

a hollow silver light, alive and clear.

Not rope, not chain, not earthly twine,

but living force in silver line.

It carried nothing, yet held fast,

a weightless tether built to last.

From heart to body, breath to bone,

it whispered: You are not alone.

A living pulse, a silver seam,

more real than anything unseen—

and through that cord I came to see

my life was bound to humanity.

 

The room below became a prayer;

my body wept, still seated there.

I rose above the roofs and trees,

above the streets, above the breeze.

Below, the neighborhood still stirred

with passing lives and voices blurred.

And from each heart a thread was shown,

and every thread reached toward my own.

 

Higher still, the rooftops fell,

then every street I knew so well.

The neighborhoods became one seam,

as though the world had learned to dream.

Then cities folded into land,

and coastlines fit within one hand.

The continents grew small beneath,

like whispered words released on breath.

And there the silver threads were shown,

no longer mine, nor mine alone.

They crossed through every soul I knew

and countless lives I never knew.

The Earth became one woven sphere,

with every heartbeat gathered near—

a ball of silver, softly spun,

where all our separate lives were one.

 

I turned and faced that Ancient Light,

still held in wonder at the sight,

and as I looked, I came to see

what kind of presence stood with me.

Within that hue, three beings moved,

distinct, yet seamlessly entwined—

three presences, yet somehow one,

like threefold rays within one sun;

one living pulse, one endless heart,

three forms no distance held apart.

 

It knew the worst that we could be,

each hidden fault, each history,

the wounds we made, the wars we waged,

the cruelties passed age to age.

As though all time lay open there,

each life made visible and bare.

Yet nothing in that presence blamed;

no wrath arose, no judgment came.

What met me first and met me last

was love too boundless to be grasped.

 

A love no parent’s arms could hold,

though every parent’s love were told.

A love no human tongue could phrase,

though voiced through ten thousand days.

Were every love the world had known,

from first-born breath to flesh and bone,

collected from our earliest breath

through every birth and every death,

still all of it would fail to prove

the depth and gravity of that love.

It wrapped around what I had been—

my light, my shadow, every sin—

not to excuse, not to erase,

but to receive me into grace.

A warmth against the killing snow,

the shelter only cold can know:

a blanket in a blizzard’s breath,

a love beyond regret and death.

 

Then higher still I raised my eyes

beyond the stars, beyond the skies.

Those countless threads did not come loose;

they reached beyond all earthly use.

They stretched beyond what sight could claim,

beyond all language, time, and name.

Past constellations, planets, night,

they vanished into farther light.

And still those living strands were drawn

toward somewhere farther, farther on.

I could not see where they were tied—

only that nothing lived untied.

 

Only then did silence speak,

when Earth below had grown so small,

when space stretched fathomless and deep

and silver bound the lives of all.

And from the Ancient came no cry,

no thunder shattered through the sky,

but understanding, whole and clear,

received by mind without an ear:

 

No life is lived by self alone.

No soul is ever just its own.

Whatever love or harm you weave

becomes another’s joy or grief.

The smallest kindness leaves a mark;

the smallest cruelty feeds the dark.

Each whispered hope, each hidden scar

can travel farther than you are.

What one hand heals, another keeps.

What one hand wounds, another weeps.

Though eyes may never see the thread,

the whole world feels where one has bled.

 

Whatever happens where you stand

will cross a sea, will touch a land.

No act remains where it began;

it travels farther than we can.

Through stranger, child, through foe and friend,

it moves beyond where choices end.

And if we choose, as humankind,

to lift instead of leave behind,

then every thread would feel the rise—

one living web beneath the skies.

 

It asked no oath. It claimed no throne.

It left my will completely mine.

No force compelled these lips to speak,

no law demanded I proclaim.

But some truths, once they touch the soul,

make silence heavier than shame.

It was as though I had been shown

the pattern pulsing under life—

how every choice becomes a thread,

how every wound outlives the knife,

how every kindness travels on,

how no one suffers all alone.

And though no voice commanded me,

I knew this truth could not stay hidden:

not duty laid upon my breath,

but revelation freely given.

 

Then all at once the Ancient neared,

its living presence bright and clear.

It came toward me without alarm,

without a threat, without a harm.

And at the space between my eyes,

where thought and inner vision lie,

it seemed to flick one weightless spark—

and violet split the endless dark.

 

Neon purple flooded sight,

a sudden burst of living light.

It flared behind my shuttered eyes

and filled the chamber of my mind.

Then every silver tether stirred,

as though it answered some unheard

and ancient call from flesh to soul—

a summons drawing spirit home.

The cord grew taut, alive and bright,

and pulled me backward through the light.

 

The pull returned—not cruel, not wild—

but sudden, sure, and undefiled,

like stretched elastic loosed at last:

one instant there—then falling fast.

I crossed the distance in a breath.

The stars collapsed. The heavens left.

The universe rushed inward whole,

and body closed around my soul.

 

I struck myself in one great sweep,

returned from distances too deep.

The sofa thundered at the wall;

the room came rushing back through all.

And there I sat with tear-soaked eyes,

still carrying stars behind my sight,

still feeling silver through my heart,

still knowing none of us stands apart.

 

I searched for names that human tongues

have given wonders through the years—

a vision, dream, a fleeting glimpse,

a whisper passing through our fears.

But none could hold what I had seen.

No ordinary word seemed right.

Until one name remained with me,

still burning softly in the light:

 

Revelation.

 

And so I carry what was shown,

not as a truth that I can own,

not as a crown, nor as command,

but something placed within my hands.

A silver truth, both vast and small:

what touches one can touch us all.

No life begins or ends apart;

the distant stranger shares our heart.

And while I still have voice and breath,

I’ll speak the thread that binds us yet.