20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

Divinity Entombed

Entrance to Sousse catacombs flooded with light

In the morning you look like every other
sinner, makeup smeared, hair unkempt,
heart heavy with the bloody dawn of forgiveness

For last you went to Sunday School
the preacher warned, “Remember,
everyone’s a sinner”, even 10-year-old
girls with pigtails and lofty dreams,

and you swallowed hard again the accusation
cloaked in kindness, accepting the wafer with a
clutching sense of panic that hell
might befall you if you do partake, and
most especially if you don’t

Heaven became a destination,
a sought-after paradise unobtainable
amidst your sureness that there is no
eternal story, your suspicion that even you
might not be real

And in this darkness welled a great sorrow,
a longing which cried to fling itself to freedom,
in this solitude laid a song, mimicking
the mournful wail of birds at dawn

Beneath skin stretched translucent,
intertwined with bone and sinew,
muscles, fat, and pulsing organs
deep within the essence of you, lies the
realness that you seek, the ghostly ghastly
spirit soul, your divinity entombed

Go now, and wrestle free from your human skin,
allow the light of your eternal being to permeate
the darkness of your soul

©SpiritLed 2014

Sound of No Sound

Lost in thought, her mind
wanders to a younger day, when she
expertly walked the tightrope over joy and
pain, a misstep here and there, but
never completely losing herself in that
cauldron of self-awareness bubbling

Pain – it was not feared then, but
admired, on the weathered faces of
the elders, noting their wisdom and
grace, the simple way they brushed
her hair from her face, and kissed
her forehead, assuring her with their own
worry that there was none for her

But now she wonders where that
elder-wisdom has gone, and will it ever
find her, or if it’s even hers to long for,
the kiss of peace long ago washed from
her furrowed brow.

When did she stop trusting herself?
Was it the first time she rolled over in her
lover’s bed only to find he wasn’t there?
When she felt the sharp sensation of betrayal
from one she considered a friend?
When the sting of loss pierced her heart so
deeply she thought she would drown in the tears
she never cried?

In the stillness that is left she listens,
listens for anything that will convince her
she’s alive, and in that empty place, darkness
reverberates like a thousand universes swirling
around their suns, like the hum of angel wings,
like the breath of creation in her ears

Like all those who came before her
Like all who will ever come

The sound of no sound
bringing life, bringing light
resting in the goodness that rests
inside the stillness of her mind,
where she is whole

©SpiritLed 2014

1 Comment

Collection of Words

One collection of words breaks
the camel’s back, upsets the order
of things, rocks the proverbial
boat and sets it sailing in a new
direction, not to foreign lands, but
waters well traveled and often
overlooked for what seems
to be finer things, a path that
appears to offer more, but actually
conceals darkness, a façade
parading as a savior, and because
you are so vulnerable, you hardly
feel the sting of the thousand tiny
cuts, until that one collection of
words causes you to bleed out

©SpritLed 2014

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Into the Light, Where You Belong

Smell of mold
and musty leaves
raindrops on the windshield
in the still-dark dawn

linger in the depths
of darkness and desire,
where your spirit most
yearns to be free

where the long-held
confinement has rendered you
listless and lifeless

crazy before the eyes of man
yet pure in your creative depth,

where the Wise Woman,
flowing silver hair,
adorned in robes
of lavender

holds open the door
for you and cries,
“Lay down your arms!

Fight no more,
grieve no more,
die no more.

Walk into the Light,
where you belong.”

©SpiritLed 2014


When Silence Ends

When, as a child, did you play happily
by the stream, and come singing home,
passionately sharing your adventures,
only for the beloveds to tell you, “Quiet!”

And when, in your classes, did you
confidently speak your truth, answer
their questions, paint your construction
paper masterpiece,  and the trusteds told you,
“It’s not good enough.”

And when did you feel the whisper of spirit
in your soul, gently guiding you on your way,
and you shared, and they laughed?

And when did you stop listening, painting, writing, speaking, trusting? 

And when will you decide that the darkness has
lasted too long, that the  passion of a new day
can no longer wait, lest  you tear free from your
own skin where you’ve been confined all these years?

That stumbling across stones and briars,
feet cut and bleeding, is preferable to the safe
and righteous path, where no pain, in fact
nothing at all, makes cuts into your soul?

When will you decide that fear of words
without real meaning will no longer be the
prison walls that demand freedom of the captor?

And when will you stoke the flames, when will you once
again tend to the spark, blow the breath of life into
the still-smoldering ashes, collect the branches and
twigs that have fallen in your path, burn them on
your altar, and fuel the dawning of reclaimed light?

© SpiritLed 2014

single ray of light

a single ray of light in the dark room,

static at a particular straight line,

never moving, always staying there,

just fading when approaches the twilight,

and disappearing with onset of  night,


making an appearance yet once again,

as sunlight comes through a new day,

faint at first, but reclaiming its shine-

the single light ray in the dark room,


where there exists nothing else but

a penetrating darkness all around,

isolated away from life and living,

where the only play is that of the light,

which comes by everyday, day after day-

the single ray of light in the dark.


As darkness falls

One is six, the other three years old.

It’s been a busy day and they are tired,

but not tired enough to give in.

Now, there is a feeling of renewed energy

as they realise it’s growing dark.

There is a moon

and a few stars have appeared.

Christmas lights are beginning to twinkle.

It is not Christmas yet.

Not for weeks.

It’s only the garden centre

in advertising mode

dressing itself up

showing off its new seasonal wares.

The two boys

don’t care.

For them,


in the dark,

watching the lights,

Christmas has begun.



Come rescue me, o stars. Lead me away
from tears that blot my face because of grief,
from all the darkness at the end of day.

I choose embroidery or appliqué
to decorate my afternoons, gold leaf
like stars that rescue me, lead me away.

I need you so this angst won’t ricochet.
Come take my hand, give me your handkerchief
to wipe the darkness from the end of day.

Within this mud of grief I feel cold clay
surrounding me, and beg for your relief.
Come rescue me, o stars. Lead me away

and help me find a place where I can play.
I find this sorrow anything but brief,
know well the darkness at the end of day.

How long will grief hang on? Please, be passé.
I wait to stand firm on a new belief
to rescue me. O stars, lead me away
from all the darkness at the end of day.

A Rispetto

How interesting to see that I’ve been writing many these, but with a slightly different rhyme scheme. They go abab ccdd. Anne, I think I’ll use your topic, if you don’t mind.

My Brain

With all its neurons doing what they should,
my brain stays wide awake and in the light…
unless, that is, a seizure draws a hood
of darkness down. Then all things turn to night.

I love to use my brain and use it well,
but hate when seizure throws it into hell.
Most times it functions in the brightest sun,
although I’m never sure what I have won.


This morning rain and all its friends,
the thunder and the lightning spark.
At ten AM the skies, still dark,
are rent by gusting wind that bends

the guiltless pines to twisted shapes.
Deep rumbles thunder inside me,
reminders that I am not free.
A seizure wraps its woolen capes.

Note: I just posted this poem on my blog Brainstorms, where I thought it would be appropriate. However, I made a few small changes. Which do you like better, the 20 Lines version or the Brainstorms version?



Will you…?

Need I pass away to find a new world ?

Because I decay, your voice is unheard,

And I’m lead astray by my easiness,

Instead I should pray for some forgiveness…

But my wounds linger as I don’t take care

Of my old body, though I am aware

Of my condition and of my weakness,

That’s my complexion and that’s my darkness.

I need a new life in this space and time,

Not a new excuse, not a waste of time !

Will you follow me on the alleyways

Of my twisted path on these fragile days ?

Antoine Burgos



What I Seek!?

Finding the way through the darkness,

that dwells on the street,

Finding that ray of light in the dark,

that hides within the corners of the street.

Looking for it, I get distracted by the darkness,

which attracts me,

And get side-tracked from the light,

which will end all my agonies.


This way is so difficult,

The path to light, unknown, untouched.

I do not know what I seek-

The magnificent darkness which surrounds me,

or that ray of light hidden, yet to be found.

I seek to know what I seek and that is all,

That is all I seek, I want to know,

to know what I seek, what I want.

1 Comment

The Small Petite Woman

A small petite woman walking in the darkness,

Passing by the lights of the city which she considers a mess.

She has left it all behind- the power, the glory,

She is tired of framing her own life’s story.

Frustrated with her acts that she so dubiously played,

She now walks alone, her hair no longer tied in a braid.

Losing the sense of this world, she wants to be who she really is,

She has said goodbye to her past with a gentle kiss.

She is just starting to accept her real self with no pain,

She is walking in the darkness with no strain.


The miracle of the night,

Its darkness, so bright.

I am immersed in the shine,

My desire being my whine.

This night is different,

As its affect is so vibrant.

I want to glow this night,

Even if it is not right.

This night is seductive,

As well as obstructive,

Towards the deals I have for tomorrow,

But if I sleep, I would go into deep sorrow.

I want to live this night,

This night so bright.


Circular Darkness.
Deep within lies our soul’s container.

Our wombs hold our dreams and the cosmic artwork we will call forth.
Tied to the moon a cycle of death and rebirth occurs within us in intervals of 28.
We must love our womb and all that it can create.
The seat of our soul, the womb is eternity within our flesh


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