Parabola Poem

Some are thrown into the fire.

Others circle its edge for a lifetime,
avoiding the smoke, fearing the ash,
waiting for a safer season.

But some—rare, quiet, flame-breathed souls—
walk in willingly.

Not to be burned,
but to be unmade
by what no longer serves.

Not for suffering,
but for truth.

They carry no map, no armor, no escape rope.
Only a question pressed into the chest:
“What lives on the other side of this?”

And so they go.

Into the aching hollows.
Into the restlessness that tastes like dying.
Into the silence that mocks the idea of purpose.
Into the unlit rooms of the psyche
where the only language is breath and waiting.

They go—not once,
but again and again,
spiraling down, fracturing isolation,
touching the root of forgetting.

Until something deeper answers.

A voice that doesn’t speak in words.
A knowing that isn’t taught in books.
A coherence born not from instruction,
but from the intimacy of becoming real.

This is not spiritual performance.
This is parabola lived through bone.
This is the rhythm of those who teach without trying—
because their very being has been rewoven
in the fire they didn’t run from.

If this is you,
know this:

You are not alone.
You are not lost.
You are not broken.

You are on the sacred curve
where gravity becomes grace.

And you are not behind.

You are exactly where the spiral folds open.