And man is between heaven and hell, and his knowledge of this the only thing to tame his agitations and keep him humble.
Pray for him that he may be satisfied with what he has without envy or wrath when all he owns come to leave and force him to long for the days that were.
Teach him to care for his memories as though his only belongings but never to be so nostalgic that he loses touch with what could be.
Teach him to strive and work for what he desires most, that idleness does not grip him with dreams and hopes
So that what could be shapes into what is and when what is is finally reality; tell him not to hurry for what will be.
May he be strong without abuse or tyranny and may he be purified in the knowledge that he is man and man only, that his duty is simply to walk and to journey.
And though he may fall to corruption and delusion, though he may bathe into his own reflection and revere illusions,
May he break out of those spells and take flight back from the flames in which he both revelled and cried
And back on land and to the higher realms where he may spy, where he may peek into the eye
And be reassured that all is one.
Ultimately let him fall back down to earth that he may find his place in the world and know that he belongs and belongs always.
In majesty and grace
Beneath my Master's face
I kneeled and I confessed
All that once was laced
By constraints and pains
And in His embrace
There I put myself
And in His hand
My fate I placed.
Woman is an evil to the man who seeks the womb
And from her eyes to her thighs draws a pathway to the tomb.
Neither does she melt nor submit when beneath his ******
Is the pleading of a beggar's lust or the cries of child like thirst.
Repulsed by helplessness she drives a man to either succumb
Or build a world of his own.
Though many fall prey to eternal possession
They that never learn and in endless perdition
Seek from her a false recognition.
There she is, on the altar, bearer of the dispossessed
An illusion divine veils a woman's flesh.
Many dispose at her feet both hopes and dreams
In faith that she may save or redeem
Those with no esteem
For growth or power.
Only a mother could love such souls
Reduced to lap dogs or fowls.
Always more than she can handle,
A woman's burden is that of all men's
Or at least of all children's
Who seek shelter like waves against the shore
And abandon both shield and sword.
Woman plays hide and seek, selects and rejects
All gravitate to her like light to the insects
Aroused by feral and primal urge which by no fault of her's
Turns men ruthless and makes every single one
Forget his pride for a single dance
Yet none succeed but the one who took a chance
And turned away Medusa's glance.
Blessed is he who looked inward to the spirit
And lived to stand on his own two feet.
Tis for him Eve removes her leaf
And rests on his shoulder firm.
Up and down I go into the unknown below, a pebble tossed by destiny's throw.
My miniature spirit, an insult for the infinite and my nature humane and too easily split stumbles and falls into the lures of time.
When the windows shut and the bustle subsides I retreat into the marble dome where further worlds reside,
Where matter and form erased by nightly balm fade into folklore as logic slips from my palm before the final glimpse.
There I lay, fluid matter over solid mind, out of sight and out of time I am over and under. A paper for all facets once gone adrift to be disclosed in cryptic glyphs.
Good or bad, virtuous or criminal, all memories and thoughts gather at nocturnal call. The night from which we hide, the purest light from which we conceal our plights left unfulfilled for sake of social rites.
It is then I awake messenger and receiver. To take to pen and paper all that once was far, nearer. To hide from our modern kings; logic and rationality, that which holds no validity; dreams.
I wallow in dreams and memories, some eternal fantasies in which I, a puppeteer, fashions you in every way I please.
From looks to habits or the movement of your hip I hold the string from tongue to lip.
A single sway could make you prey to wrathful play, you, hunted to the hunter, thread to the hook caught upon its clinging nook.
I spit and curse at your nature which I seek to resemble, me, lifeless and formless without a self, void of a soul, a creature unborn, a narc from cradle to the grave. I love you the best I can, you, avatar of what I know I am.
Spirit; our essence, our motion.
Ethereal fume on the face of the deep; my reverence to you, Your Awakened Sleep, my Muse.
My sight grateful to your feminine cadence though my touch be duped by your Holy Ghost. Your circular sways shall never fail to spin webs upon my inspiration