Recline

Rest upon the divine like a raft atop choppy waters
Razor blades bubbling, a procession;
I hand my oars to an unknown presence that is not I am but is,
Or so I am told.
Sink into surrender.
Grasp not. Want if you will.
The will wanes
And waxes
Fatigue is the balm
Through the wound the light comes in.
I relax it and it gapes wide and the gears shift
Enveloping it
Sturdy by no effort of my own.
The rest melts.
The mundane is exalted.
I may not see it from down here
The halo floats
Above and slightly to the rear.

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