Ancient Heredity of Light

                     
There are footsteps in ash at Laetoli,
made of clay with stripes of white, off center,
the center is the outer porches of life
as desires and dreams, deep within the tumbles of pain,
feigning death, where enters the ancient light of heredity,
when open to receive the energies of Pliocene,
in lasting thoughts of the distant and venerable truth.                      
                     
There is a blindness of where we have been,
the blindness of screaming ghosts peering
through stained castles of gray indolence;
they are not there – deny that you see them,
for they do not see themselves.                       
               
The footprints are within the ashes of yesteryear,
in that my path could only follow my own two feet,
and yet, there are those that are with me,
undeniable measures of spiritual beings;
pains that know this contact.                    
               
There are footsteps in ash at Laetoli,
from evolving beings fit for adaptation and survival,
made of clay,  and with stripes of white,
where enters this ancient heredity.                      
                     
     
“Keep looking at the bandaged place. [the pain]       
That's where the Light enters you.” ~ Rumi