Schizophrenic Christmas

Schizophrenic Christmas

~ I ~
Feeling the axe in the hand.

God might be a good idea.
So maybe you already know what I’m thinking.
When I love, I attempt, insanely,
To find a way to give
Only from what is mine.
At some point,
The voices condemned me yet again
And I arrived at a birth.
I throw away trying to be reasonable
In exchange for a new spirit
And something else
I never understood.

~ II ~
Chopping down the tree.

I have been trapped as if in the fine grain
Of a tree that knew its secret.
It could be that we love
But choose to remain silent.
Each step opens onto a little more of the path we follow
Because we are joined to the world, umbilically.
This is a prayer,
Leaving those we love behind,
Fumbling with sacred things,
Earning the chance to love
As humans love.

~ III ~
The tree falls.

He is without confusion.
He speaks in the third person, correctly.
Let him be the One inside What is not the One –
This is a hard thing to understand –
How words make what is, holy.
He lives well and dies well,
Proud as any human,
Longing for his mother, for a wife,
For the mercy that comes
From accepting suffering freely.
He was human, except for
When he was being perfect,
An idea that can almost be grasped.
So I follow as best I can,
Savoring the mystery,
In schizophrenic revelry,
This gift I can only try to give away.
Perhaps, I shall never learn to love so well.