I pull the cork and tip the bottle out onto the page,
The ink runs out and spreads in patterns as I fix my gaze;
My past and present, all my days, are open to review,
The sun and rain, the good and bad, provide me with my cue.
Now dip my sharpened quill into this well of memory,
Now open up the path I’ve walked to public scrutiny.
The scalpel blade writes, separating, cutting through events,
Examining my choices, hidden motives and intent.
I’ll excavate emotions hidden in the secret place
And birth them to the light where they’ll receive the kiss of grace,
Just like a surgeon operating on the working parts
Dissecting very carefully the matters of the heart.
The choice to let the cork be pulled, of course, is always there:
I can ignore it, turn my back, stay blissfully unaware.
But finding it is worth the risk, I’ll trace the storyline
To find redemptive meaning in this unique life of mine
This poem was originally posted on the Stories from the Street website on 13th July 2010