We identify with our suffering
and call whoever confirms it
loving.

Whoever carries a solution
beyond understanding
becomes first a stranger, then an enemy.
We turn our backs, point,
cast out.

And if the solution is too foreign –
then we crucify.
For the self wants to be saved as it is.
But what helps
is the one the self does not survive.

So we love the one
who rots with us in the cell,
and hate the one
who unlocks the door.

What opens the door
is not a key –
it is letting go of the one inside.

The cross does not rise in history.
It rises here and now,
every time consciousness nails itself to form.

Being imprisoned in form was true.
The pain was real,
the cell was narrow.

But the tomb is empty –
because it was always empty.
No one has ever lived there.

It was only the light
held captive in form for a while,
believing it belonged there.

Until it simply let go.