The X and Y Axes

Makinde Kehinde Margret
@kehindemargretmakinde
1 month ago

In this vast territory,
I would navigate the maze that functions in beats and trickles.
Oh — tickle my asking,
set me deep,
deeper than deeper can be,
and longer than all lengths.

I am a practitioner of NEF.
I will find you
when you put you where I can,
and you lead me —
an X and Y axes at a time,
oh twine —
an earthly longing,
and a shaft of sacred pull.

Where my soul was formed at 00:00,
when my time began to count.
I did not know how my dust became breath,
or how me, clay, wore pulse and desire —
a soft-tethered star between planes of nature,
the matter and mist,
the seen and unseen,
grains of being,
and heights above them.

The X-axis hummed tunes of flesh:
imagine, gather, build, conquer.

The Y-axis chants of the Spirit:
ask, ascend, acclaim, acquire.

Oh my soul,
particle of longest time,
fire pendling these lines
and protracting the point of light —
quadrants of time,
desire vetted by season,
and searches among the chlorophyll tongues,
fluid-flow heights of holies,
between now and always.

Angels keep watch —
not the gentle paintings of mortal minds,
but wheels within wheels,
aiming for those who are covered by eyes,
burning with eternal assignment.

Among them,
my soul asked for sight.
I traced the X-axis in endless motion,
chasing what hands could not hold:
lovers, laurels, coins, acclaims.

The Y-axis tugged a cord of longing in my marrow,
pulling me upward
to draw from the Source of all measure —
to meet where the axes crossed on me,
at 0,
with The First Gospel of the King, 11:29-30.

And I saw it:
worship beyond melody,
but a swirl of my soul
having all the dance it could
along the vertical line.

The reorientation of my being —
an ascent where bows are made
while air skims
and time bends holy.

Oh, beings of dust,
and of planes above them —
you too are caught
in sacred geometry.

As I, like an ant tracing its line upon the earth,
an eagle tracing its arc upon the wind,
a star holding its station in the hang —
I was given Him:
to align the X of his days,
and the Y of His devotion.

To make of my every breath
a point of worship,
and my flesh's horizontal hunger
revving into my spirit's vertical rise.

In this,
my soul finds rest
in the harmony of axes.

Berr-inga wind fields.
Flames jubilate
as my soul is counted
with those who have Him to their rise —
while I exist and stretch out
on the invisible lines.

The X-axis:
my feet pressing paths of longing,
where I gravitate to bread,
titles, and faces,
and map my name on passing sands.

The Y-axis:
my soul's ascent,
the quiet climb to the unseen,
a yearning beyond what my hands can hold —
to touch His breath
at the intersection.

At the Origin,
I find Him
who spoke my dimensions to become,
and stretched lines of my cosmos and heart.

For what is my skylit
if not as a wandering point,
lost in the quadrant of my making
until it meets the axis of His purpose?

Worship becomes my plotted course.
My praises, coordinates.
My tears, a notation.
And my surrender,
a plotted rise.

As the Fourth Book of the Gospel of the King says to me:
a moment, my fleets,
my Y,
and my earth's hunger
bow to His calling.

And my soul,
weary from horizontal striving,
lifts upwards,
and finds its way to His heart —
its home.

My soul, trace your axis.
Mark the spot where worship rises.
Align your longing and your living
to the center of all.

Be held together
at the cross of coordinates.

Find the axis of your existence —
find Him,
to have,
and never leave.

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Description:
A poem about divine geometry— where the x of our striving days meets the y of our devotion to our maker, and at the plots our souls find rest according to the curves made from both axes.

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Picture Credit: David Nieto for Unsplash



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