longing for atonement
looks like
an enormous black hole
like a huge purple blue bruise
or gaping open
burgundy magenta wound
it seems to swallow everything
that comes near it
this black pit of death
love is not here
go further down
and you will find it
though you may **** yourself first
love rests elsewhere
turn from this negative pull of energy
this is not light
but what light exposes as false light
the light I am
snuffs out all the darkness they sense
they can’t hide from it
and so they want to throw it
onto what I am
making the darkness about what I am
rather than about themselves
being attracted to the darkness
the day has arrived
I no longer shield darkness
I can only devour it

I live as a vessel of pure light.
Shadow does not rest with this form.
I see the world as an expression of my own self.
Love abides as all being.
We come only to discover this One Truth.
All the longing and movement of life
serves only to highlight the Divine within.
We are One.

It’s all coming up in spits and spurts –
the worst parts of me.
I see those ones aren’t really me –
just outdated, overrun programming.
Why do I have to choose to run it
just cuz the program wants to finish?
It’s a program. That’s not me.
What’s “me”? I don’t know.
I can’t ever seem to stay still
long enough to decide.

All there is, is all the watching.
All there is, is the art, and the dance
and the song; the words.
Yet, those aren’t me too.
Though, those are the better parts,
the ones I like to keep.
I can say I feel weary
from the other, more tiring things.
But who? Who is weary?
Who works? Who suffers? Who sleeps?

I’m here. This is all I know.
I’m here and, this is everything.
The wonder of the world
is whatever you want it to be.
What do you love?
What will you keep?

I will go, blissfully naked and unmade,
up into the arms of my only beloved –
my Self – my world – my own mother.
I will draw life from the air
and cause the world to know.
We are here.

If we can see
what we're doing
is killing and maiming
our very and only home,
why can't we simply stop
and commit to preserving
and nurturing instead?

Are we so in love
with the concept
of the painful and
untimely demise
of our beautiful abode?

Why is it
that the planet
on which we were born
is now, somehow,
not good enough
to deserve preserving?

From deep within this heart
that beats with only love for Mother
and Mother’s all-consuming love,
a raging flame burns silently,
extinguishing all that is not pure
and leaving only grace.
All the pain
of the thoughts we are
is burning in stillness and peace;
gifting us our true and only Self
in the most magnificent release.
Any lingering traces and
all the hidden trails
of our countless, misunderstood lives,
the concepts and ideas, the misdirected,
algorithmic orders of our minds:
Burn it all to ashless vapor
in the ***** of the unrelative,
non-dual and unperceived Truth
of The Mother’s endless pyre.

Will I remember that
on this day,
or that other day,
I awoke besieged
and under attack?

Does it count, all the ugly,
growling, snarling demons
licking at my gloriously unpainted toes,
if I never write them down?

Does it mean
they weren’t even ever there?
Something like imprints
on the paper from
the pen with no ink?

I see, it’s quite simply
rather easy to take
Mother’s new, colorful pens
and draw some scene
of greater freedom
than the former, greyer
stories wanted to unfold.

And the sorry tinge of regret
that appears to want to hold on
is really only misplaced
and mistrust of my own love.

Look at that!
It floats on by.
See that cloudy scene
just passing
along the screen.
Why write down only such a minor,
miscreant, unsorted kind of thing?