the forming of substance 03
(fallen, from grace)
"I have just come back from a party
where I was the life and soul.
Witticisms flowed from my lips.
Everyone laughed and admired me—
but, I left,
yes.. that dash should be as long as the radii
of the earth's orbit ———
and wanted to shoot myself."
It is not enough...
It is never enough--
we need too much
But, here on earth
we have to make it work
so we call good-enough, "good enough"
and with gratitude, we
learn to take in what it's available to us.
But the truth behind it all remains--
the fact that we need so much;
Where is one that is complete..
and if so, complete--
compared to what?
There is a perfection- cloud-hidden
within everything that is human
The spirit within the body that carries it--
b r e a t h e s out perfection's truth,
though- we may only experience it
in the moments between awake and asleep-
the human psyche is bent on survival--
and in a broken world, the thought of an
inherent perfection brings on too much--
our own condemnation even.
In our minds we fall too short of even the
concept of it.
Or do we?
The gravitational pull towards Muse
borderlines on that of addiction;
its stirrings touch what is primal in us--
once-inexpressible words, suddenly find expression;
And a Beethoven finds musical notes
that lead to a symphonic masterpiece.
"Words from Heaven" is not saying too much
concerning the poet, or lyricist.
"Music from Heaven" is easier to say,
when concerning a Mozart or Beethoven.
Or a Tchaikovsky.
Perfect reaching into the imperfect?
How about 'imperfect'- feeling, and then
expressing pieces of its own long-forgotten
things experienced within the sphere-
made tangible again through the flesh,
simply in a moment of remembering..
and also that of a temporary forgetting--
The beauty of despair is in the heartbreak
of finding out that what is right in front of us
is never truly enough
or worse yet--
possibly even harmful to our own true needs.
What we need most is all and everything
that helps us remember--
That we came from perfection,
and were loved there first,
and now, within the imperfect-
are unable to be denied by the perfect that is
forever inherent in us--
It is completely unable to deny that
which is of its own.
If we were to never despair over what is in
front of us, we might never be compelled
to find the strength to remember-
flashes of the primal--
that of our own history, of perfection.
And if there ever were ever an evil,
or a Darkness-
it would be hell-bent on keeping us
from finding that very thing.
Sometimes.. just sometimes, death
looks just like love.
"If I find in myself desires which
nothing in this world can satisfy,
the only logical explanation is
that I was made for another world."