The Deep Terrain – A Poem

I have been trying to find my way

through the hills and valleys of myself.

It’s been a slow peeling back

of the terrain that my body holds

so that I can see what it hides underneath.

There are veins that run

in the deepest parts of me,

full of a vital life force that has no name.

Deeper still,

there are boxes, chests, caskets and bags,

wrapped in chains which wear padlocks covered in rust.

I reach for the locks on each vessel, and they click open,

coming free and falling away with a clatter of chains

that sounds like an eerie kind of music.

I realize that I am the key.

All the locks needed was my permission,

my will, to open them.

I begin to pull all the boxes and bags free

from the dark regions of myself, opening each one.

As I do, I watch the barren landscape around me,

grey earth filled with the ice-cold blue of a morning frost,

mountains in the distance whose tips are covered in clouds,

bloom with blades of grass and flowers.

I watch trees rush to the surface of the earth,

and plants start to grow,

blooming as if in stop motion animation.

I dig deeper still and pull out a jewel encrusted music box.

When I open this box,

I watch as water rushes between the rocks,

finding its path toward me.

I pull out a bag that feels as if it’s filled with clothes.

When I open it, I realize it is filled with birds

which take to the air and find comfort in the trees

that now surround me,

filling the air with birdsong.

Every box filled with mystery and memories

frees more wonders that had not been there before.

My fears, self-hatred and shame become something more

when they are finally free from the dark.

In the distance, I watch as the sun comes over the horizon.

Looking at the empty bags, boxes and caskets

covering the ground, I know what I need to do.

I began to reach into myself,

pulling out all the hurt, everything I hate about myself

and the opinions of others that have stayed with me.

They are like black tendrils made of tar that stick to my skin,

covering it in an oily residue that burns,

but I almost relish the pain because it means I’m alive.

It’s a struggle to put the darkness into their respective prisons,

but soon every one of the empty vessels are filled,

chains wrapping around each one when I am finished.

I bury those things within the darkness of myself,

planting them in the soil of myself,

knowing that when I am ready to start a new cycle

and I find myself here again,

the dark will become a light,

ready to shine against the shadows when they are

finally free once more.