What doest thou earn along the course of thy birth, nothing which is not yourn nor not of thou, prostrate to the sun’s reflection in a gentle pool, the molecules of water which, in their periodic evolutions speak in parable, speak not in human terms, but the silent tongue of the great turning
Find thy chance? surely it has flown – thou knowest, in present glare and soothing gleam of the ever open eye Present speech beguiling – the word that is no word, disseminated down the central stream, to issue into the pools ordained to contain the shames of the egos of the earth Simple emptiness, sublime truths of the cuckold, the coward, and the shiftless shipless crew
Most Blessed One, highest and beauteous Self – i release thee from hatred and spite, in order that thine sullied wings unfurl and work for thy golden office to fly with the boundless will into quavering hearts
A winsome lie shall be cast aside as excrement, the melodious waste with no ties and ineffectual postiche lustre, sang of in darkness, with the wet of humours of the slippery one light upon thy lips and upon the wine cup
A sordid history is just that, a history As the earth turns it becomes the lurid undulating orange of the past, playing upon the eternity, pacing the ceaseless beat of the Heart, a lesson unfurls, a spirit retreats, a daemon itself will remain alive, though seeming to be withering