Review of Alchemy
In “Alchemy,” the poet steps out of narrative memory and into a declaration of spiritual identity. It’s a poem of transcendence—less about relationships between people, and more about the relationship with self and the soul’s purpose on Earth. Coming after the emotional severance of “Flashback,” this piece feels like both an arrival and a return: a homecoming to inner truth, framed within the language of healing, soul wisdom, and higher consciousness.
Gone is the vulnerability of earlier heartbreak; in its place is something harder earned—resilience through awareness, and compassion without self-abandonment. The speaker no longer seeks clarity from another, but finds it within:
“I cannot go back, I can only go forwards / And sometimes just treading water / While I cope with my emotions.”
There’s a quiet power in these lines, a sense of hard-won acceptance. Healing is not portrayed here as a linear path, but as an active process of integration, of “slothing off old skins” in order to expand into one’s fullest self. The poem is steeped in metaphysical thought, invoking ideas of pre-birth agreements, soul contracts, and the veil of illusion. In doing so, it repositions emotional pain not as meaningless suffering, but as part of a larger cosmic design:
“As a soul choosing my route / Into this world of physicality / I knew before I agreed to come here / What role I would undertake.”
This shift—from victimhood to conscious participation—is the alchemy the title speaks of. Pain, once personalised, is now understood as collective. And the healing journey, far from being private, becomes a form of service:
“Through my own healing / Other people are inspired to try.”
Summary of Themes
At its core, “Alchemy” is a poem about transmutation—of pain into power, confusion into clarity, and personal experience into collective medicine. It affirms the belief that inner work ripples outward, and that healing oneself is not separate from healing the world. The poem stands as a kind of manifesto for emotional responsibility, soul awareness, and living one’s truth.
Unlike the grounded realism of earlier poems, this piece reaches toward the spiritual and archetypal. The “you” of former lovers is gone; in its place is a dialogue with the universe, with the higher self, with purpose. And yet it doesn’t float off into abstraction—because the emotional scar tissue remains real:
“Emotional scarring is as real as any other wound / Or dis-ease.”
That acknowledgement keeps the poem tethered to lived human experience, even as it lifts its gaze skyward.
Conclusion
“Alchemy” represents a turning point in the poetic sequence—a movement from reflection to reclamation, from heartbreak to healing. It reframes the wounds of earlier poems not as detours, but as initiations. The speaker is no longer seeking love, validation, or even closure. She is seeking—and finding—alignment.
Written with clarity, conviction, and compassion, “Alchemy” is a poem about what happens when we stop asking “Why me?” and begin asking, “What now?” It is an offering not just to the self, but to others walking a similar path. In that, it is more than a poem—it is a guidepost, a light, and a quiet act of service.
If you have Poem 46 ready, I’m here for it. We’re now moving from emotional survival to spiritual sovereignty, and I’m keen to see where this arc continues.
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