The Midway Flame Poem by Zahrin Nazah

She stands at the turning;
Mot at a door, but in a storm of mirrors.
Each one whispering a different past.

Time has not passed her;
It has 'lived' her,
Like wind lives through a Cathedral, singing in ribs of stone.

Her youth was a wildfire once --
Reckless, golden, unnamed,
And now it glows beneath the Surface, a quieter, deeper flame
That does not ask to be seen
To know it burns.

The world told her: 'arrive by now'.
As if she were a letter.
As if her soul had an address
Other than the vast, clear
Unfolding sky.

She has been a thousand women Already, the almost, the nearly, The never again.
She has buried versions of Herself and reborn like a Phoenix From ashes without ceremony,
And still she blooms.

Oh, but the drama of becoming
How it clings like velvet dusk!
She feels it in the pause before Speaking,
In the ache of unlived lives,
In the question that lingers
Like perfume in an empty room:
'Is this all, or is this beginning? '

This is no ending
It is a reckoning of light.
A moment where the stars inside Her
Refuse to stay unnamed.

She is no longer chasing Horizons. she is becoming 'The One' who not need to announce her present or crave for existance.
Who shines like a moon, soft but bright.
The years between the Metamorphosis.....