and born into Light,

your spirit
still kicking,

your soul
unsoiled
by rites of passage
or the bloodied waters
of the baptismal font,

Just for a minute
you are Golden.

And you are wrapped
in white linen,
and taken to a place
they call Home,

where the fear
of a god
with steel blue eyes

is cultivated
in the cradle,
where Jesus
never slept,

and you don’t know yet
that something is wrong;
something is damaged;

Something is wrong
at the root;

And you feel
the branch breaking,
but not like the song …

the nest
being ripped
from the bough;

And you learn quickly
how to fly.

And when the crucifix
comes off the wall,
and the skin
ripped away
from your soul,
and it splinters
into a million shards
of glass,

and you feel
like a stain
on white sheets,

where your mother
conceived you
in Original Sin,

you learn quickly
how to lie.

But something is lost
when there is damage
at the root;

and you know
you can never
return.

Something is lost
when the chance
you called Home
is gone
forever.

But at least,
you do learn quickly
how to fly.

When you are young
and clean

and always afraid,

you learn
to lie low
in the tall grass
when the nails
come out
and the shades
go down

and the eyebrow
arches
inexplicably;

And hiding
and dreaming
become the stuff
of salvation,

though absolution
is elusive;

and you spin
and you spin

until the blood
drains from your head;

until you are dizzy
and dripping
with beautiful
Lies;

and if you are lucky
an artist is born
in the wounded field
of childhood dreams,
where you learned
how to spin
Light
out of pain;

And you became
Golden
again.