Tempting Destruction

What will it take to finally move me
out of this place of worst fear,
drowning in my own precious Piscean waters,
flailing about for the shores of an uninhabited island
where I can hear myself think,
make a plan,
scan the horizon for a sail
or a white messenger bird
carrying hope to the hands of a stranger?

The tides carry me now exhausted, out to sea
to the edges of twilight
while I wait to regain my strength
and to let my pain escape one drop at a time
crystallizing, not unlike the Desert Rose,
with this waiting
into some solid thing I can roll
between my fingers and examine
like lace or folds in the memories of a miniature mind
where one can find the exact place
where happiness once lived along with sorrow
and they wrapped themselves together,
lovingly smoothing the edges—
the liquid source of comfort not forgotten.

A tiny mirror
on the pocked face of this self-made stone
catches the eye,
invites me to look inside for my truth.

I resist the urge to break the core open too soon.
Patience and attention,
like that of a hopeful farmer in his spring fields,
gives me the sense to wait for rain
and adjust the flood gates
not until at last I can see nothing else
will hold the power within
without tempting
destruction.