A Weepers Loss

The nesting spirit
Colours her bloom to a skylarks call
A mystic red river roars silent
Oer the hushing lips of time
Playing its dance to the weave
of white willow

Lit to her shadow be a birthing moon
Oer sun drenched ocean  streams of desire
A promise firm to the pulse of memory
Tempers its fawn to the flesh of Babylon

Mooring its dawn
To the stain wake  of night
Spinning ***** to the severed eye
Set dark  to the clik
of a keepers find

The New World
now
requires
creators

not
re actors

to conditions
others have already
created

visible only
to those invisible to it

as you look
you be created to that you see

as you stop looking you
be created to that you cant

To embody light fully

one becomes light

and
drops the illusion ones becoming it