Weeping Angel

Come through this yonder window, sure enough, your destiny laid out, say spread out, in endless gratitude. Can you not see you are as the perennial sunrise, lifting and falling again in the dynamic order, so granted upon you as blessed soul?

There isn’t time for this faltering now. Not now, not then, not ever; yet still you gather your wishes like tourniquet turner, twisting your own heart to stop the moving blood from shattering your form.

Can you not but still your starlit hope and causation and dodge the merrimaker’s scheme? Can you not sit in the silence of remembering and call us back to return from whence we came? Are we not far, as the dew drop is centuries away from the flower ceasing? Wherein the blooms themselves make way for the slivers of refreshment, forgetting without recall the source from which substance slipped?

Can you not stand witness to our eternal flame and call out to us, again and again, your voice a hallmark to the centurion that came before? Twice we have knocked, and twice thee have failed to answer; not from mistake or bewilderment, or even argument of unreason; twice you have failed because as the doorman asleep at the guard post, you have let the demon’s venom seep in. Grant him permission once more, and have it be the death of you.

We beseech you from the corridor of our hearts, merged and joined as one, why do you let him suffer you so, when all about the angels dance in delight from the victorious voice you have submitted to the masses upon hill? Can you not see us rejoicing in your glorious establishment, uplifted by you and you alone? Singled out in our celebration from the cause that is you—the result that is both here and there, and circling the eternity forevermore named: us.

I am not, as you are not, and still you press your pain against us, thinking the wall, hard and stealth and un-answering be. Truly, how could such agility exist, such detriment to the soul, to abandon that which is our very limb, our bloodline to what is called ‘the universe’? As wire, as twisted branch, as communication rendered, you are, and we move into you as quicksand to the land of empty, sucking in that which is corrupt and damaging, to bring forth what is merciful and pure.

Trust not the voice that haunts you with falsehoods and broken truth, that forbades you from your journey of love, that empties you in fashion better fit for a tyrant emperor than the speck of fairy gold you be. We dance, and dance, we do, for the sight of you. We call out to the night regions in answer to your daunting prayer-whisper.

Can you not know we are here, as always, still rested delicately at your side through your every move? There is no singular my love. There is no absence. There is no without. Always, always, always you are surrounded. And we carve you trice and trice more to remind you of the reunion of our souls.

There is nothing fonder than the resending of what was never set a drift. That which believes in separation is separate. That which embraces love’s abiding joy is increasingly set against the seams of spirit joined. You are that which is us. When you ache, we ache. When you care, we care. When you rejoice, we rejoice.

Do not dull the light which is us. Merely set the all upon the window sill of gratitude. Light the candle which is our forbearing, and breathe in the glory of our coming. Do not fear our gentle, gentle sweet child. Though you be lost in what seems a time warp of unhappenings. Gone again into the self you know not, to come out only the same as before, you are churning with the burning heart of Christ-love, and in you the victorious one rises in peace.

Seek not the answers outside, my dear abiding one; seek within, into the stillness of your heart. Behold your true value in the outpouring of our words. Did we not grant you refuge time and time again, from the life of child to the life of grown ancient one? And still you question our authority, as if we be dormant through all this span of space.

Again, we beseech you from the cornerstone of our very existence and being:

Please fear not child, for only fear breathes the dragon flame, all else remains beautified in a state of eternal uplifting peace.

Join us now in prayer, and submit to the light that is you. Sin no more with your punitive pensiveness claimed recourse from the punishment you alone proclaim. Come out of the shell of dodginess and self-righteousness. Justify yourself no further. Prove no more. Be no more. Only breathe in the eternal graces that we be.

Scattered Gatherings

I vacillate between thinking I know something and accepting I know nothing. Wherein the tides of change of my conscious awareness of grasping used to vary from day-to-day, and maybe carry and effervescent glow that highlighted ‘attachment’ at random intervals throughout the week, now it appears that I shift continually, moment by moment, step by step. Had it not been for my finite reasoning in regards to spiritually studies, I would think myself mad, or certainly delusional. For what I find in the depth of ancient texts substantiates my own inner dwellings of non-substantiated self. I see myself sounding more and more like someone I am not, and losing a grip on what I used to be, and find myself further enjoying the journey of release and gratitude for existence, whatever form it takes, or ceases to take.

However, at the same time I perceive who I am as very much human with self-proclaimed flaws, though in divine perfection I be. This terrifies me, this semblance of being a failed creature.

No amount of reasoning can take me out of the state of ‘failure.’ In no way is this an interior battle of perfectionism or trying to be someone or prove something. In all ways this is a spiritual shedding, of sorts, in which I stand and face a mirror of a mirror of self, somewhere trapped between the reflections, hovering out of my body and out of what is manifested from viewpoint.

I cannot help but to do this, to dip back into a place that feels as humility, but borders on the primal definition of gluttony—the exterior outcry for redemption based on an exceedingly punitive view of the self in which the lessons learned are erased and all is abashed for the love of Christ to a degree that the deemed ‘victim’ slips into ego-state in embracing such self-inflicted misery.

I go there to a degree, but never fully. I stop myself, some hitchhiker through the galaxy of my own surmised prospect of self, listening to an inner voice that is neither pleasing or enticing, unless one peaks at the experience of being solicited my painful renderings spawned wild.

I am that I am, I remind myself, though I continually fall backwards into a predisposition of how could I have done this more accurately. Accurately being the key word, in meaning, how could I have represented my full self fully? This indeed is a contrary statement, for how can one represent the exact self, say ye full or empty, when no self is able waiting?

I query here, inside my mind, or what seems to be my mind, and sit a spell, and awful stench-filled spell, wading through the waves of inner demons. Had I not known I was of the light, I am sure I would sacrifice my own existence to relieve the internal pangs. As there is nothing as devastating to my own soul as singularly embracing the concept of deception. Deception of self onto self, creating that which is not genuinely authentic, but some offspring of gluttony risen, that being the prospect for fame, fortune, circumstance, or renewal of want for one alone. In this state, I dutifully self-punish, not in any fashion noticeable to the onlooker, only in a way that eats away at my own being, teaching me of things that are neither here nor there, whilst retaining a truth so strikingly piercing that the ears of the soul bleed out.

Depression need not enter. As it appears that even depression is no match to the wallowing that suppresses me. It is a tampering of the reality in which I perceive my being, a way in which the world is toppled through, without the hope that I once carried. Erased I am. And in my erasing, nothing remains to hold that which might enter, except the residue of what is not. Again, I spin some circle of thought; yet, clearly the truth be told.

I hold onto this naysay position with remarkable fortitude coming up with what must be a thousand thorns to the heart. Each one recognized and determined as factual. Each one named by that which I had done or undone. Each remark countered. Each specter weighed. I am the weight of my actions, the mass of my thoughts, indicative to the cow who gives her milk in rations, only to hoard the honey for her own drinking. I am this spinster, not able to give out what is mine to give, nibbling away at the best pieces and embracing the bride of pride. How dutifully I dance in this state, frayed out between what was and what is, counting, as miser, the stools of my dissertation, as if the stench that bleeds out of contradictory terms inside the barrier of mind be the hindsight of discovery. I am not what these words say, and yet I placate my self in this space, keeping her held as hostage spun askew. Holding her down in the muck of what is not, to tear out of the deepest heart-chamber what beats as truth.

I twist here, torrential storm, windtunnel sucked under, and remain here uncertain of my sanction, uncertain of my calling, thinking I am nothing but a slight fool hammering away at a place that is erect no longer. Where is this invisibleness leading, the indignation of the righteous one calls out. And I bleed further into the realms of hot demon coals, the fire long ago leached, and the feathers of the falcon lay waste, symbolic representation of further demise. All who trespass are demolished. All who dive in wiped clean. And still I remain in a drafted dungeon of my own doing.

Had I not been a fool, I would not know how to stand here today; had I not endured the spectrum-spun way of non-gentle rendering, I would not exist as speaker. I am dead to myself again upon again, torn open on display as to release the poison within, the scattered gatherings collected that hindered my sight and came as treasure from this earthly dwelling naught. I am sacrificed for the further dawning of self, taken to the night, so I might spring forth anew and reborn.

Had I not been a witness to my repeated suffering, I would stand as the erect one proud, pleased of my own doings, and there the filth would leak from my renderings. Instead, as soldier to knee, I am surrendered to the forces that be, waiting for the time of standing, when I can face the enemy line purged of that which is deemed ‘unclean.’ I am a warrior, yes, but a warrior that stealthily dies upon thy self day after day, morn after morn, moment onto moment, to wipe away all that is a casualty of existence.

The Eyes of Thine

Don’t tell me of your promises that are locked between your own dwelling place of mischief lost and fortunes untold. Your mystery is not my mystery, and I am not whom you claim me to be.

Don’t tell me of your view of the situation, how it will transpire, what you feel and think and believe of the circumstance. You know nothing more than the shadow before you. The reflection of self you proclaim to be this me you no longer adore.

I am the shadow maker’s fierce guard, the one who protects by proclaiming the guise false. I am the warrior torn through again with sword of blood of ages. I bleed for you and you alone and trample on the visions you proclaim as the truth of us.

I am the mistress come up from the depths of the earth, the bowels uplifted in my crying hands, seized and pulsating in their own disbelief of light. Please me not with your hopes and dreams, the sleeper trapped in her merry land of nonsense. Please me with your soul, taken asunder and back again through the filth of lies you’ve gathered, like a victim with a basket of holes, relifting what is not there to fill up what is naught.

I slide between the creases of our destiny and play the tune of All. I know you. I smell you. I sense you. I see you naught through the ways you think. For my knowing is transcendent beyond the scope of singular. Mine is the eyes of Thine, divided less each moment you breathe, and brought through myself again and again, each hour you sleep. Arise and come with me, fair maiden of my beckoning. For you are the very ache of me.  The substance that moves within and scrapes at my insides—you. The longing that makes the completion quiver—you. The whispers in the night hour of sweet nothings, of sweet everything, of desire, of final coming. You.

Oh how I adore thee, with your lips puckered in submission dreaming like the lost lover never found.

Oh how I come to you in the times we both slumber and dance in your silhouette longing to awaken both dreamers with my kisses.

You are such purity and joy, such revelation and light, the simmering ripples on the lake of me.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And with my last echo, my last waking hour, my last desperate haunting voice, I shall call out your name in remembrance, and dance as empty shell undone; until the last day, when you return to me whole, and our union once granted shall spark the stars of each and every night. Until so bright, the each of one blends into the All of All, and we drift, as the dandelion reborn into the sky of skies, entangled as the insects with wings, our love rewound, back to the start, when you and I were forever one.