Regrets

The wind blows the scent of
a flower, from ages past,
into the empty cavern of my heart.
I fold my pain close,
stare at dark shadows
inside my navel.
I am giving birth to myself.
Fear washes against my ribs,
wave after swelling wave of
internal sandpaper.
Solitude.
I seek solitude.
The butterflies have mutated
into carniverous catepillars,
yet evolution,
destiny can still be found
in the lines of my palm.
A light shines from within.
My navel expands,
my eye fixed,
on the unbroken,
the shining token that grows within.
My past is a piece of me.
It is part of the weft and weave
of Life.
How can I regret anything
from times past?
The scent of the flower
awakens memories.
If the world was not broken Then,
it is possible the Now
would not exist.
And the burning navel,
instead,
expanded into darkness.
Its light, an unborn star.
Absence of regret
does not negate
pain.
So I hold to my pain.
Shuddering, delicate.
Sometimes I think it is the only truth I know.
Though it rends my flesh,
I hold it to my beating heart,
I lower my hands,
and the pain touches the light in my navel,
and that which cut
my soul to ribbons,
sheds a guiding light.
My face is upturned,
seeking.
My navel ripples with
creation and pain.
I am giving birth to myself.
I will hold my child
to my warm breast.
And, regret
Nothing.

I couldn't be gifted with the type of rhyming poetry that ends up in Hallmark cards or as the Coca Cola jingle. Oh, no. I had to be gifted with the gut-wrenching poetry that guarantees I will die - a starving artist. I need to either move to India or keep my day job. ::sigh:: Guess I'm going in to work on Wednesday after all....