Yoga

Peace rippling -flowing over aged hands

muscles stretch to inhuman lengths

until the soul cries out “I’m here!” 
This is why I clamor for my mat
lay myself and bend 
hoping for relief

hoping for answers

hoping for sweat.

It is difficult to explain the melodies 

that echo from my head flowing out

veritably felt by each spirit in the space
They hear a foreign language, with no comprehension

only the emotion translating hand
gestures 
written on the sub-conscience

They’ll perceive it as a bow

call me humble

call me beautiful
I am neither of those things. The terror of that follows me

as I glide through the movements, making microscopic 

changes in position that reverberate first in my mind 

then trickle down into my soul until I am weeping
wetting the mat with salt and truth
​
a truth I never have words for