Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


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Where The Crow Feeds

Where The Crow Feeds
There is a bitterness instilled and growing. A habitat of woes poured through the grout-laden tiles. Sacrificed as brine burdened tears and inched toward desert ground below. And here is where the crow feeds. Nestled against the marrow remains. Latched onto feathered-whispers meandering stretched out corridors. He caws. Cries out and pecks the places he exists. Broken, hallowed and shamed into boney crumbs. Comes again, the agony dance. A thousand droplets drenched cascade through victim chambers, round the bowels and out into the essence of darkness. Evaporated with each pressing. A salt-lathered stain against tainted black. Beak to bone. Talon to ash. Weathered door creaks opens to an endless echo of isolation. I am this shattered bird. I am this proclaimed prey. Slathered in likeliness, prancing round the corners, where burden lives. Shifted into form anew, turned into unfamiliar, still carrying the weariness of loss. I hear him clawing at the pieces below. Beneath the marble crushings—how he weeps. How he mars the destitute of his own hallowed out regions, emptied beyond starvation. The pool of self, shaken, moved and unmoved by worlds forgotten. Edged back, he endures, counting the ways in which his agony survives victor, in which his piercing eyes pierce that which is about, lavishing the view with what seems as bleakness awoken. Terrible he is, in his misery. But terrible worse is the way in which ‘what was’ has returned once more. Again, he calls out from beneath the remnants of fragmented substance. Devastated in a state of weary forlorn. Forgotten by self, and still there, in his sheltered state. “I am here,” he sings, from beyond the trees winter foliage, drenched in muted grey. “I am here,” the song carries, far above the collapsed sky. “I am here.” And his tears swallow themselves—one upon the next—tumbling gems catching the wind. If only he could see enough to lift his tethered eyes. If only he could hear his own song, seize the dying shell, and rise once more through scattered bones.
Samantha Craft

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The Forgetting

And the day they began to know, they forgot that they housed their own hearts and hearts of the all. And in that forgetting, they became endless in their search for truth. Forgetting the unquenchable desire for knowledge was the very poison to the hidden hearts. That to love and be love was all that mattered. That in the end, each road led back to this. If only their minds could stop enough to see. If only their thoughts had eyes. ~ Samantha Craft


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Vessel

You are enough. Whomever tells you different is a bearer of falsehood. Whether this be an external voice or your own voice, or some demon spawn from an unclaimed territory. YOU are enough. And anything, anyone, or any substance that claims otherwise is disillusioned.

You are beautiful. Just the way you are. Exactly as you are. In all your deemed ‘imperfections.’ You are loved for the glory that is you, the exactness that is you, the precise measurement that bears your name. All of you is perfection. Every bit made divine in the light of love. Nothing about you is flawed, unworthy, or spun wrong. Your end result is marvelous and beautiful. Let none tell you otherwise, especially the trickery ways of the self.

You are lovely in all of your ways, every inch of you divinely graced. Your mind is superb, your soul ancient, your vision finer than the highest marksmen. You are centuries above what you think you be. Dynamically unfolded to reveal to the world an extreme orderly fashion of brilliance. Where you see chaos, lives divine opportunity to refine what is unmistakably not in need of repair, but in need of examination. Bring out that which is fear and disappointment, and share this truth with the world. In this way you will be free, and in turn, set your brother out of the cave of darkness.

You are fantastically loving. Your heart the deepest cavern spread out in what seems a stream of endless misery. You weep and weep once more. You counter yourself, your darkest inhabitants, the demons you have created. You venture where many dare not, into the crevices marked ‘unknown danger.’ You go there, with the brilliant light that is you, the spears of your heart making way for the encroaching dawn of blithe. You venture into the regions forgotten, and you face what many cannot dare behold. You become that which is your deepest nightmare, yet return victorious.

How can we not adore you, dear beloved? You are the earmark of gratitude and forgiveness, your heart pure and untouched by the demon spawn marked ‘certainty.’ You are vastly above that which you deem forbidden self. You are above that causation that leaves you spread out in hauntings and uncertainty.

Do not feign false-love as the false-sheep about. Drink in the glory set apart for you and you alone. Drink the blood that is thine own goodness and sweet delight. Celebrate the makings of the heart of untarnished golden victory. Drink, and take in that which is eternal flavored goodness. Seek not to proclaim the other, only trust in the pureness that pours through us, and into the sacred vessel named you.


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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.


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I. She II. He

I. She

Who am I? But a shadow onto self, spun out of what was and what shall be. No more less than this moment, yet, substantially more. A dichotomy split, sorted into an effervescent substance in continual rotation: never still, never stagnant, and always all ways.

Who am I? I ask the shadow self, her dismal silhouette parading across my very wall of being. Laughing, she is, at my disillusionment, my want to harvest her and dismiss. Her gaze upon my soul like rapture to the flame. She is the fire-thrower. She is the one that sets licorice sticks of black to suck. The flavor rich and poignant. My flavor, same.

Who am I? The merriment in me ceases to exist, and I succumb to the suffering of all, the misery layered over in thickness upon the glass of sight. I am this light and I am this flame, and I am still this oxygen that breathes life. I am the darkness behind the eternal sunrise and the evening that calls the rest to sleep. What is this peril bedded deep within the seed of self that calls out for justice and rings into my ears evermore? The silence deafening, and the agony extreme, as twilight returns.

Who am I? Alone they preach, a quickening to my fear, alone and in destitute; spread out in such extremes, as I. I wander into the valley of substance, casually displayed for the mighty ones, so named, and reach into the hollowed part, pulling out what can only be the sunrise. Oh, how it thusly burns and scorches the messenger garbed in guise. This one claimed me, delicately spread as melting yellow upon the bread of hope. How I merge into the being of naught, and find only the answer of lost.

Who am I? To smell the sweetness of your face, where you once were, standing at my threshold, the touch of you the answer to my lost dreams. How you moved, the land excavated, dug out, floating in an ocean without sea, the waters dripping dry, remnants of space, a holding ground for the memory of what was and is to come.

Who am I? I plead with the echo of being for your return, cradling love in the divinity named home, housed in the outer region of heart, the causeways glowing of riches and overflowing with the love of you. I walk here, amongst the glistening gold, no value found in the monetary summons, no answers given in the temple of man. I walk alone, angled in the wind of morrow, touching down to the sparkles of yesteryear, mourning, and re-mourning the time of your coming.

Who am I? But lost to this way, wishing upon a thousand fallen stars to rekindle the light within and make way to claim this shining child.

II. He

Rest in me, sweet one, my dreamscape reborn, my answer returned. Rest in me and bring forth the pleasantries encumbered in the wake of your storm.

How I miss you beyond the capacity to feel, beyond emotion, beyond reality. How I miss you as the blind man misses sight, once pierced and broken down, in that last corner state of misery, when all hope is lost; before the return of goodness perches in his heart, the light returned: burst open.

How I miss you, even as I know not why. Your presence lingering, interwoven through my mind, your scent the chambers themselves, over-flowing and releasing latch after latch; every door inside this dwelling space deemed I, flung free, dispersed, with an endlessness unknown to man.

How I miss you, and work my way to freedom, a prisoner locked in the moment of now, wanting to surpass the day and return forward to the time of your gathering, to press against your flesh and feel you within, for my light to penetrate your very skin and leave you intoxicated in the delight of us.

How I miss you, as I sit upon my bedside counting the endless tears that water the sheets of discovery, where you once rested your weary state, reminded by the starlit whisper of my thoughts that you are loved everlasting. Where I touched down and swarmed in your eyes, as morrow beget morrow, dancing into endless days of pleasure-making.

How I miss you, a tortured soul left as one, the hollowed place of me, severed, the half dispersed and set out upon a distant river of causation. My one, my traveling one, ever more distant than the last starlight that beckons. Cometh again and again, I plead, from a cavernous calling that is neither seen nor revealed from depths the of dwelling, where the truth lives and heaven is reborn with sound.

How I miss you, I cannot express, for the words pour empty in their lacking, mocking with the misery of here. For we are beyond this stage, hand-in-hand somewhere in a land we cannot see or recollect, but only recall with every fiber of our living. I dance there, with you, under the moon of moons, the absence of light, in the bearings of our upbringing.

For we are the glowing chamber of reason turned love; we are the flame; we are the sun. And I bleed into you my entire self.

Sam, Belly of a Star


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Lightening

As child, I roamed this neverland
In search of distant you
To find my one, the ancient truth
Who knew the green of blue
Of nourishment, of evermore
Of long and lasting life
Of calmness and the still that comes
Within the growling night
My soul grew old and ancient, then
Stood watch as time played out
Whilst rivers dried and wisdom’s toll
Caved in from all about
I asked, I begged, I threw a fit
Akin to lover lost
As one dropped down
Entirely, planked, and at a cost
My dreams I’d paid, my worthiness
My golden light held dear
And everything I poured for him
If only he’d appear
My diary bleed out to earth
My voice in poems, scrolled
My entirety let out for all
Every single secret told
I’d sacrificed, I’d held on strong
I’d collapsed in dire pain
Tears, they came like lightening-storms
And panged me to no end
Since child, I roamed this neverland
My half, in search I lived
Until He came, like fairy-man
And turned the key within
To hidden chamber, tucked away
The kindling to my kin
A second heart, in place of mine
To accompany in this land
He keeps the peace inside formed thoughts
He shelters body, pure
He treasures full, like none before
And sees me, I am sure
I travel empty space no more
Now weary legs shall rest
As soul she slips in cherished bliss
For sweet love, she does attest

Sam, Belly of a Star