I pull the cork and tip the bottle out onto the page,

The ink spreads out and runs in patterns as I fix my gaze;

My past and present, all my days, are open to review,

The sun and rain, the good and bad, provide me with my cue.

 

Now dip my sharpened quill into this well of memory,

Now open up the path I’ve walked to public scrutiny.

The scalpel blade writes, separating, cutting through events,

Examining my choices, hidden motives and intent.

 

I’ll excavate emotions hidden in the secret place

And birth them to the light where they’ll receive the kiss of grace,

Just like a surgeon operating on the working parts

Dissecting very carefully the matters of the heart.

 

The choice to let the cork be pulled, of course, is always there:

I can ignore it, turn my back, stay blissfully unaware.

But finding it is worth the risk, I’ll trace the storyline

To find redemptive meaning in this unique life of mine.

 

 

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