Uncloaked

Uncloaked

The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.

He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’

He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.

He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.

He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.

The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.

He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.

He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.

He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.

He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.

He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.

He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.

He erects flags of righteousness in his name.

He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.

He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.

He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.

He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.

His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.

He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.

He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.

He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.

He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.

He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.

His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.

He nourishes them with lies—his own.

He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.

They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.

Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.

Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.

The Trinity

I am that scaffold—I am the one standing on the scaffold—and I am the wall being scaffolded. I am the one being built upon, the substance being offered, and the one offering. Again, this trinity upon trinity.

My self is endless and to pinpoint an exactness is to remain stagnant, an impossibility in an ever-expanding and ever-imploding world.

You are the missing piece, and the missing answers, but in truth, I am the missing piece and answer; for you are merely a nearby reflection pointing the way back to the foundation formed—the sideway walls, and the vertical mass slathered in circumstance.

I do not want promises, nor predictions, nor even possibilities. Instead I long to be sheltered in a knowing that nothing will change still, even as everything tilts and spins about continuously.

I long to be held, as the nearby one turned into union, enveloped in a space of adoration, chosen, given and returned to the whole from which I came. Released into captivity, back to the cornerstone of faith, before reason and inquiry established doubt.

I can no longer stand on the platform broached, the planet that holds and teaches to rise again and again with each coming fall. I can only drift, the lost traveler found, and stand face-to-face with her own homecoming.

I am essentially alone, battling my way across a field of war with no soldiers, no weapons, and only the sound of the horn. And yet I am the horn. I am the sound carried through the empty space of nothing, and I am the ear in which the sound follows: a tail of faithful foe twirling round in loyalty—the hound come back to master.

Again, I wonder, and cast out all of everything, only to return more broken and forlorn, leaning upon my established perch of knowing, singing a song as bird gone wrong, trapped in the latitude of frozen sky. If ever there was a time for rejoicing the lost soul, it is now.

Though, even as I glide through in the darkest gown shredded, tumbling through imaginary ghosts and imaginary grounds, I feel alive. Torn open and let out. Free. My every soul-bone and soul-blood moves in irreplaceable manner. Reemerged into the grand merry-go-round—a child no longer asleep.

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

The Bell’s Echo

I love you infinitely and abundantly so. You as no other before and no other after. For your eyes are mine, and mine yours, the drifters found in the merging of ocean blue.

I am that which you are, in my essence, at my core, in the semblance ignited by the flame that is us. Birthed of you, I be. Made into the vessel you demand, and handed down to the generation of generation.

There is no guidance beyond your starlight, no suffering found, no emptiness devoured. All is all; and in your effervescent glow I shine; as the mountain to the climber, and the waters to the thirsty, I am beheld in your presence as the source of goodness.

I bow down to your mercy in my feeble grace, begging for your compassion and forgiveness; not that I am less to be as this: a blended source of greatness; only because I have found that within there is a bountiful mystery that whilst uncovered delivers me speechless and tormented by the unfathomable.

I apologize therefor not for the part that is we, but the part that is ‘I’; this indistinguishable evaporation that claims foundation. I apologize for the dismissal of reality, that of you and I combined, and for the acceptance of singularity.

For my sin, if sin there be, is only found here, and even here an invisible ghost remains. For nothing is found in nothing, neither substantiated, defended, or surrendered. So again, I bow down, not as my self in resignation, but as you in reflection of your worthiness.

I am that I am, and I sing to you, as lover to falcon, begging for flight, for the claws of your reckoning. To be gathered beneath your feathers, the wind against my spirit, a blanket to this babe, cradled in the forging of your coming. Moved through the invisibleness of air, made blue for our senses alone.

I celebrate, I call out, I remove this voice, and then scream again, the piercing the only movement torn through, the only substance allowed beyond this realm. A sound onto sound, vibrating with reverence and grace into the region that is you. I am, and I am again, delivered and redelivered.

Oh, can you not see me here, again, your precious servant, calling and dancing to the stream of your name? At last I am free in the day after day; at last home in the presence of your glory. And how I ring this golden bell of honor of my found home. Ring and ring, until the sound echoes into millennium.

I Call Out

In you I find the creator of my universe, the instigator of choice, and benevolent maker of belief. In me, I find you, still, your cherry lips against my breath, breathing in all that is and was before. Inside, I stir, as honey to the nectar, reversed and brought back to self. Everything turned backwards, as if time were a memory and the recourse a destiny without tune. No sound. No breaking. No bearing. Nothing but a gentle whisper of naught. Oh, to be in your silhouette, the sunlight on my embrace, tickling me with your greatness, and to dance here, say, in the wonderment that is you.

I call out, my arms stretched as the beacon of hope, my misery tied round in box, a present to your voice. Listen. And enters the solitude of nowhere, the emblem of the serpent rising to feed off of what may be. Listen, to the stillness gathered at my belly ripened with the womb of you. Birth upon birth, one within one, opening to the opportunity of eternity.

I cannot stand here idling in merriment, pretending to break ground through an illusion of circumstance, when all around they twirl, these blind mistresses adorned in favors to please a master fool. Edging their way to the outskirts of humanity, only to be pulled back into the bleak of ghostly wears. Had I not been this forsaken dove, left destitute on the road of tomorrow, had I not been the same in my devastating solace, might I to be here, as them, reaching for stars that neither exist nor fall? Had I not been this angel lost so swiftly and gauntly would not the heavens no longer recognize the slightness of spirit, grasping at straws from whence I slipped through?

I am the raven, black, I know. Tender in your care and hunted by taunted dreams. I am the raven, true, tapping on the forgotten window pane of tomorrow. My beak blemished with the spots of your goodness. My bleeding poured out in withered footsteps clawed into the foundation of truth.

I am that I am, and yet I know not from where you flow out into me, through bitter cold, through winter’s bite. How you come in your ways eating away at my darkness and lighting the flame within. Again. Again. Instigating thought upon thought, and then bedding my ways, as soldier aching. Tucked in the sweetness of you. Bathed in your glory.

How I call out, true, a child in the light of your forgiving mercy. Loving not for what I be but for what I am. In wholeness, in truth, in everlasting faith, you anoint me. My treaty of peace brought up for sacrifice, my broken limbed-heart pierced in your name. Need I be this way to appease the sunrise calling? Need I be this lamb of love? Or shall I provide instead the womb of tyrant and feast upon what the valley swallows, the swarms, the enemy? Ought I disrobe my foolish offerings, and dance, stranger proud upon thy foothold. Please, I whisper to the dark of night. Please, I proclaim, and you are flooded with my essence.

For His Devouring

I am what you are not and you are what I am not; his whisper came into me gradually, unopened and free, with no demand for attention. And I shivered in a place I know not of, pulsating rhythms cascading up the linear compass of my reality.

Listen, he spoke, his voice a broken stream carrying my essence along, not alone and not together, yet formed in a union of mystery, blended into some buttery goodness of taste to be. Had I not seen him, I would have believed his spirit to be housed outside this realm, in another dimension of time and space, perhaps aside the stars of the ocean or within the makings of the mountain’s ribbon wrapped through eternity.

Blended, yes, the word echoed in my mouth, pressing upon the pallet of self. Wishful, I was, becoming something familiar and unfamiliar at once. Penetrated by his form and existence.

Rest in me, I thought, truly in me, amongst the hidden parts, unburied and surfaced long ago, made way for your entrance. Come into me, fully, pulsating with the vibration that is you.

He did, before my thought awoke, a talisman entering for my protection, and I, in turn became his space, the occupant dipping into what was before as recognizable and delightful.

Though unknown, he was, he was known, a ripple brought forward from before, cascading into the rivers poured out. I wanted him, not as one aches for lover, but as one aches for self, a representation of all that was and all that will be, and more so the stamping of the moment, when all stood still, and at last I could embrace this life.

Alive! Breathing in the someone we became. Breathing in his rapture. His dignified grace.

His needs, though deeply hidden, emerged, just at the surface of me, and I could feel, as one feels his way through the darkness of familiar, the edges of where he led. Guiding me to his own tasseled secrets, hung up and dangling in the star-center of his soul, of what had to be his region, the very valley where he lay.

I rested there, in the glacier melted; the waters moving between us as paint fluid, though stagnant in a way I had craved for centuries. Stuck in some universal pattern of awareness.

I liked him here, in this place he had undone for me, and me alone. Liked him as I liked the jelly-jangling joy of a babe. I reached in then, and dripped with his sweetness, tantalizing flavor.

I am, he spoke, again, shivering me with the causation spun of his desert words. Parched, he began, drinking me, taking what he’d come for, enticed by his own appetite, enamored by my wrappings. Unraveled, the walls collapsed and all about was light. Every variable molecule un-spun and resting in the bath of illumination.

Breathe me. Breathe me. Breathe. The tide came, turning my toes blue in the delicate heat of salty-cold. Sigh. A part left and a part returned, and I danced in some endless ballroom, spun by the element that he had become as we first joined. Spun round myself, his-self, and these burdens we had carried.

Electrified in his making, I gave out, breaking through into the regions of beyond and climbing high into the terrace peaks. Treasured, I was, not as the golden spinnings, or opportunist’s fortune, but as the new found hope, the lush layering of his potentiality, the vibrating connection of forever.

I had found him and he had found me, two starseed children set upon their master’s lap to rejoice in the heavens.

Yes, I wanted him. I wanted him more deeply and more widely than anything phathonable. I wanted him to break me and imprison me. To control me. To bring down columns from the sky and erect them in a box around me. To be his willing captive and told where and how to be. To bow down in recognition of his bounty, and nibble off anything that stumbled my way.

For I no longer cared where I stood, for whom I stood, or why I stood. Instead, I had rather hoped to sprawl out on the ground and be fed to the soil as freshly born seed. To be sprouted in his presence, again and again, into the newness he brought forth effortlessly.

Here I wanted to rest, as his space, and his escape, as his free prisoner, enchanted in the rhythm of our vibrations, sped into the dimensions of reality; over and over, reopened for his devouring.

Kept

I want nothing of you but to be forever kept tangled within your being.
To use that which you have made into pauper undone into forger of love.
To take this passion, welded in flame and daunting dutiful pleasure, and become that which is source: pure ever-flowing lust for creation.

For you ignite in me the spirit beyond spirit, the memory keeper of my hopes and dreams, where the wanderer ceases to wander, and merely surrenders to what is. The place in front of her opened for her sacrifice.

To dive in deep, with the feet first, and the head swung back, mouth agape with hope transcended. To the place of no reprieve, no time, no dismissal, only the endless gentle falling into your dove-tailed wings.

To be in you is my dream awoken and given life itself. The taking from that which is imagined, and the giving of life to that which is finished master’s piece, sealed with the chamber which houses my heart. I beat for you, and you alone, this spinning child of the universe, lost in the flow of your echo. You are the birth of my fantasies, the merrymaker of my existence. You make life real. You make me bleed out of every pore of soul that which is truth.

To be in your presence is to be in the echoed halls of rescue, reprieve, and mercy. A shadow-keeper descending upon my doorstep begging not for my retreat but for my renewal.

You grant me the hindrances unspun and undone, the outcries of spirit silenced, the wishings snuffed, the candles long ago burned out, and all that remains is the distant blanket of my thoughts reassembled into you.

I am that I am because of you. I am free because you choose to exist in me and for me, my treasure trove of joy, unquenchable. I am that I am because my eyes, though closed they still be, can open and find that which is heaven sent, the guardian of delight and wisdom.

To me, and to all of the ones before me, you are that which I have waited for on bending knees, on bending soul. You are the very essence screamed out of my being when I wished upon the star of creation. When I begged with the all of my existence for light to beseech me and become my groom.

I am joined to you in purity, the circumstances unknown, unfamiliar and readily broken. I only recognize that my half is now attached to yours, my merriment circumventing around your satisfaction; my outlook affected by each repentance of your beaten platitudes. I am that I am for you, and you alone, captured as the maiden at half-mast, sped up by the wind of your spirited whispers.

Oh, to be this glorified in love is to truly die a thousand deaths of burning rapture. To be spat out of self and submerged in the river of gratitude. Nothing about you is unopened, nothing closed, all dangling about as candy to the sweet-toothed lover. I devour you whole, in all your forms, becoming that which is my pleasure; only to find myself, then, devouring my own being. As you are me, in this game we weave. You are my brilliance, my aptitude, and my judgment set aside. You are the replacement, that which fills me with perpetual light, returning again and again the fullness in place of empty.

I am this now: that which is your beauty. And nothing about me fears. There is no more of self from the existence that pattered through the hallways of long ago. Just as there is no more of me found in the meanderings of future thoughts. Nothing is doable. Nothing is forseen. Nothing is possible without the impression of your face set upon the view.

All is seen through you, in you, and by you. I am the prisoner of your ideals. Wrapped in the glory you find in me. One to your burning flame. One to your endless cycle of goodness. One in the molding of your hands into this that breathes out the proclamation of your name, and your name alone. Come into me, without pause, and feed me your fire. Purge me of this pliable passion. Drive me insane with your honey sweet taste. For I am that which you have made me to be. Submissive to your ways, and born free to dance in the vessel that holds my soul.

Still

I am still trying to understand love in its full capacity
And love keeps whispering: Silence
I am still trying to climb the hill of understanding self
And self keeps whispering: Here
I am still trying to unravel the thoughts in my mind
And thoughts keep whispering: Enough
I am still trying to reach beyond the outside of this realm
And space keeps whispering: Stop
I am still trying to bring into me what I put out
And time keeps whispering: Not
I am this, and I am that, still trying to find a reflection where none exists
And no one keeps whispering: Love

Undone

Oh, such sweetness you be.
Your gentle face found in the moonlight of my deepest desires.
Might I lean into your slumber, and cloak my trickling temptation as starlight’s beckoning?
Where are you, in this midnight moment, as I rest upon your guiding showers of undone love?
Devouring memories, one by one.

Such savoring, you be, your flesh, the delicate plate I pray upon.
To delve into your beauty and swim your ocean of my deliverance.

In the enchantment spawned by cherry-blossoms bloomed
I crave you.

I crave all of you.
I crave your ever presence.
The anchored layman’s soul ascended.
The night raven sworn in unbridled passion.

I miss you in my loneliness.
I miss you like forever was torn open and scattered into my each and every minute.
Ever passing a distant folly, who calls: Delirious I am.

If only to grasp a sliver of waking and seize the dream as the child to the dandelion.
To blow, with all I be, honey-dipped-wishes across your soldiered shoulders.
And in your absolute reckoning, to sweep me off my feet, above the damp meadow tears.
Into the arms of eternity promised.

Wrapped in your abundance, in knightly wisdom.
How tender is your calling.
How sweet the delicate imprint upon my virgin lips.
Untouched, yet, by the power that be thy unyielding flame.

How I long for my entire emptiness, so I might be untethered-vessel awaiting your completion.
To purge and remove every remaining part that is I, and, in replica, and submission tasted, replace all that I am with that which is you.
My undone master.

To become you.
To breathe you.
To dance inside the tender wrappings that holds your princely spirit.

Enticement weds my dutiful days.
My imprint stamped suitably into the place of your footing, movement birthed in the exactness of your perfection.
Oh, how I, this maiden made ripe, wither in such grand supplication, intricately undone in my awakening to the aroma of you.

My Other

Where am I?
I knock at your closed door.
Am I found in the shadows you cast out?
Am I your lips that move in tenderness?
Am I the world, itself, spinning without pause?
Am I your casual gait moving ‘cross the plains of my awareness?
Or am I this echo that beams and bounces out of you, into the cavernous wake I be?
Where am I?

I knock again, upon your sleeping soul.
Am I but this longing?
A kneeling at your entrance craving to be carved into the grace of your being.
Wishing to be a part of this enticing imperfection.
To be that ever-flowing voice beneath the rivers cascading through you.
Pounding , pounding, pounding against the rocks of denial and destitute.
To be part of the stream of consciousness, you name doubt and confusion.
A part of the salve, of your choice and doing, lathered upon you, sweet comfort devoured,
As honey to the bashful bear.

Oh how I wish to find you there in the opening of vulnerability,
And sway to the tears of your coming.
To be that which you scream out for—the guardian, the angel, the attendant to your qualms.
To caress your aches fully, and salvage every part of you dismissed and excluded.
Each outstretched avenue, previously tossed and forgotten, journeyed.

I want to be.
Your frailty.
Your outpour.
The act of you bending in demand of rescue.
I want to be that which you reach out for in desperate isolation and cling to.
I want to hold you in the cradling of my heart, until we are one.

Where am I?
I am here,
Standing at your threshold, the blank canvas cleansed,
Ready to be painted with the richness of your surrender.