the forming of substance 03
Stephan W
(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."
~Soren Kierkegaard
~ ~

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
perfection--
things experienced within the sphere-
made tangible again through the flesh,
simply in a moment of remembering..
and also that of a temporary forgetting--
of limitation.

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.

Selmhem Naise


She stands at its edge
looking back

looking into.

Who is ‘unafraid’ enough
to come near the edge;
Her searching eyes ask
as she looks back.

You see you, girl—
through my eyes
as I see how alone you are
There..
at the edge of it.

I am you also—
standing at the edge.
Wondering.

Is there enough
love in this world
to swallow up  this fear?
Apparently there is

tho often
only seen
clearest

    from the edge.

M Vogel
(et inpaenitens boheme, infidele)

When your worst horrors have come to pass
     and you did not die
and sleep  is actually a comfort,  
instead of a curse
Because dream-themes are no longer hauntings
but  instead,  flow in and out of consciousness
as random acts of grace
And the death that should be coming

becomes, instead
a replenishment of living cells--
a surprisingly-unexpected regeneration,  
this bracing for a Fall that never comes.

Winter is coming,

and this death, has a warmth
that will carry me through
And though the ground will be frozen soon,
there will be no death this year
above the frost line

But below,  in what is still warm
there will be a death,  that brings life--
encased in fear, yet floating within the midst
of a subterranean stream..  an ocean, of peace

Winter's chill is coming;  
there is a strange feeling in me
that tells me, I am ready.

One fine, postdiluvian day,
God glanced down on Noah and crew,  midfloat..



((ding)) "NOAH.."

                        
                          ­  "Hmm..? what is that?


((ding)) "NOAH.."



                            "Oh, ****.. its the boss.. everyone, ****** chill"



((ding)) "NOAH.."


                               "yes Lord..?"



Noah, now concerning being fruitful and.. uh..  whatever
you know-- lala,  and stuff.."


                                 "Ya..?"


"Ya yourself, Noah.
Hast thou considered the howler monkey..?
That wild-assed little pair going at it up there in the crowsnest
are tantric AF."



                                 "Dude.. you should bless those cute, hairy
                                   little love-machines with the most *******-sounding
                                   lovehowl on the planet.."




****.. I wish I was the one who thought of that..  
    :(

Lost  into the wonder of it all:
The Realms, in their entirety
and every single one of the elements

hold, fast..  in their deeply-syncronized
                                 longing,  for the shift.

Watch her now-- appear out of nowhere..
feel her breathing in,  deeply
all that encompasses  the word,  hope

My heart, races
I stumble around, alot..
trying not to dishevel
my small corner of the Universe--

The one she dances in and out of
so beautifully...
as if a whim, on the wind

Shifting- everything, within me
that forgot
what it felt like,  to believe
That forgot

what it truly means to breathe..

paulSN

You remember..
  and you know it

you were  on
the swing
  and I walked up to you

You were too young then—
not yet quite in high school
and I was not yet old enough
  to drive

  but old enough to know better

Still.. I needed you to know
so I walked up to the swing—
the one at the park- on
your way to school

and I stopped you  mid swing
and I gazed into your eyes
by grabbing the only thing
that made your swing,  swing--

          the  c h a i n s.

  They bring  you forward
  as you keep trying
but the they're fastened  too
  tight--

       to keep you from flying..


          the very thing
       you have always wanted to do

You've made yourself  miniscule ..

in order to fit in to my Bloodstream
You are unsure..  not knowing

That there is a  chamber  within me
that has been carved out   solely

     for you--

The warmth of blood-flow,  caressing;
Bathing,  the you that feels you can't..

  That feels  there isn't..

That believes  there can never be
  A Home such as this--

       .. for you ;;
Residing, in the central part
    of me.

Alone  in the  chamber
  of your room..
You can't understand  why

things are different,  now;
..Why  everything you do

and everything  you say

   Feels so incredibly,,

   Incredibly  Warm

Sparkles and stars,
there is a brilliance in the sky
and a darkness, all around it

Child of wonder
child of Light
Oh my Lord, child

Please hold on tight

The worst of monsters
come out at night
A wingless child

Cannot take flight

Wonder, young child
Let the Light  in you
emit from your wild

Chasing all you have known
that causes  such fright

A grass covered field
A rolling, green hill
On your back,  you look up

To a sky, brilliant blue

Until the blue  I see
becomes the vastest  of oceans
now, below me

On a windless, cloudless day


Wonder, young child
And watch all the monsters
float away

That which is of the heart,  capable
of making its stand  in the world
  calling "good", that which it sees  as good..
and then bleeding  from the inside
on its behalf;

  This beautiful Art..

This magnificent creature
This one who  is capable
of raising from the dead
    That, which has fallen:

In to despair
In to the Blackness of the pit--

  An un-supported suffering
  An Un-loved, grieving
A fallen-one
falling between the cracks

--Until,  with a Kiss
and a hand-chosen
prairieflower,  gifted--
Bringing,  back to life
all things..  once, dead

in the heart of a little boy
in the heart of a little boy..

D Vanlandingham

Boundless..

In its ability to extend beyond all forms of containment;
the big circle contains within it, the little one
And if it is true relationship through genuine volition of the beloved
that is to be desired most of all,
then spirit, wrapped in flesh is the autonomy most needed
     in order for the dream to become true.
Spirit is being.
Spirit cloaked in flesh is being--
feeling its relationship with its own self.
Spirit, mastering its own flesh by reigning in  its emotions  along
with the synaptic-firing of every one of its nerve endings into full
submission of the spirit's own core nature, is the root-basis of all true volition.

Spirit, in its raw form is perfect-- wholly unable to undergo
corruption, or decay..
     but the flesh..
     the flesh,
     Always needing to substantiate itself through its never-ending layers
     of self-promotion  apart from the realities of its own spirit's  core.

Yet,  pure Love--
wholly unable to see itself as that which is to be rejected,
enters in to the very act of the rejection, itself;

..that autonomy may  continue to  contain
the uncorrupted core--
     and the smaller circle becomes established:
     smaller.. yes.. but in truth,
     its parameters self stretch all the way out
     to those of the bigger one

And so, with the necessary advent of autonomy
into the relational equation,    comes also
The necessary advent of God's wholly-volitional
self-depletion of God.. entering,  in to it all
so that, in time, God(Love) alone  might take the full brunt
of rejection's unjust hit--
     in its autonomous movement  away
     from its own incorruptible core..
     away,  from its own true self.

So, follow the smaller circle, if you will, my beautiful--
either way, you are still following God.

the forming of substance 05
Stephan W

"But I will not drive them (the 'inhabitants') out in a single year,
because the land would become desolate
and the wild animals too numerous for you.
Little by little I will drive them out before you;

Until you have increased enough to take
possession of the land."
~Exodus

.
Within the sphere- formless and void,
there was all but nothing to inhabit.
Existing within the eternity of the moment,
unable to retain--
it could only experience.

It could behold perfection,
but not hold on to it;

No need..
perfection was ever-present--
In full view of the sphere
and the precious spirit- encased within,
now, wrapped within a living, breathing skin-
this body- for the spirit,
and the spirit for the one body

each part of the heart-- a city in itself.

.  .
Reaching across the chasm,
there is an almost symmetry in
the layout of the cities

     but their inhabitants are unruly

and the spaces between far too great
for any kind of order to become able to
break through the chaos--
there is no longer communication
between the cities.

There is a yearning for consolidated-Sovereignty,
but the cities have long forgotten themselves-
Strewn about.. in the pain of it all,
they no longer know each other.

.  .  .
But the spirit within the body-- it remembers.
There is a gathering back into wholeness-
waiting..
and so we learn how to wait also.

Parts, and pieces-- members rebuilt-
little by little
Not too fast- take it easy;
70 years, maybe more.
Which way will it go-


There is a promised land;
waiting to be taken--

    one city at a time.

Huddled..
now, befuddled
tell me  once again

why any-one  would
want  to  return here?

And what did a child do
that was so wonderful
as to be brought back  

into a world,  so cruel..
so horribly  inhumane?

Oh, but let me believe in it
let me embrace the thought
of returning  again

and again
and again

to subject my own
young, tender innocent spirit..  
      to what?

Or  just as bad--
grow up to be
bitter.. war-torn worn

only to have  to
face it all again,
in order  to overcome?

No, leave me to die   in this one.
And if asked to  return
I will self-annihilate

rather than come back
to this dishonest  *******
ever, again.

A skyrocket across the horizons,
she is carrying her pain with her
everywhere she goes..

but my beautiful is owning it
and therefore, suffering  into the real..
into true substance, formed.

Within the realms,  
the entities know this--
those hellbent on harm,  they shudder
while those for the good

oh, how they celebrate.

Sweet Jane us truly kickin'
as the Clock of Love, keeps tickin'--
tapping out its sweet message
in quarter tones, so pure.

The swing of this little wild-one
throughout the whole universe
will bear the most meaningful,
of weight..

The beautiful girl, really  c a n  hit--

     oh man,  
     that is for sure.

And from the abyss
of an un-owned, nothingness
rises up the majestic image--
supremely crafted,   from
well-smithed words;

this something..
formed  out of nothing--

this counterfeit  substance
this ancient, hide

this cowardly, self-formed answer
to the Universe's primal core question
this childish refusal to grow up..
to own up,
and face the music

This fooling of the whole world..
this glory  of the moment..

and then, one final  pirouette,
before your unavoidable death-scream
at that final  moment of truth..


Ah truth, baby.. what a concept.

D Vanlandingham

Never more clear to me, than when the  rusted gate,
swung open  did I see the  great fullness, in the value
of choice  to suffer oneself into a place of substance--
forces pulling at me, unfelt.. realms crossed over into,
unscathed.

When she opened up her heart to me..
all Hell, broke loose

(note~ This is a rather lengthy story about trauma and brokenness..)

I have a patch of skin on the back of my left hand, indiscernible to the
human eye as being any different than any other part of my skin.
It is my heart of hearts.

Five days a week I am not with my little ones.. there is a place I go.
A broken one awaits me there; Unknowingly. On 'day one' of my
non daddy-time, I go where the longing of my heart leads me.
When I am not with them.

There is a vertical shaft-- hidden in the tumbleweeds at the base of the
mountain's foothills that leads down beneath the surface. There are
rusted rebar steps in the shape of hoops, embedded into the hardened dirt
and rock of the shaft that gives me access to what lies down below.
With each ten steps, the shaft becomes noticeably darker. After thirty
steps, there becomes a pungent smell in the air that begins to cover my
skin, and a dank mist that enters my lungs and begins to coat the
inside of my skin. As I continue to descend down-- all becomes covered--
everything.. but the 4 inch square patch on my left hand.

There is a foul 'burning' in the permeating mist that wants to place a
film over my eyes and cause them to water, but as I descend I grow a
new pair of eyes over the top of my old ones, and though it is nearly
pitch black now and the pungency completely fills the air;
I can see.
Faintly, but I can see.

Directly at the bottom of the shaft is a room barely lit by what little
light has made it down the shaft through the mold and musty mist.
I get a strong sense that this room is the antechamber. Dirt and rock
line the walls as if they had been there since the ancient days. There is
also a black mold and an unavoidable saturation of the wall. There are
two doors in the wall, but I sense that both lead to the same room, so I
take the door on the right and slowly enter into a windowless and
nearly pitch black room-- old and partially torn up asbestos-tar tiled
floor-- filthy ***** with strewn about rags and used up things. The
pungent mist would be completely overwhelming had I not already
been fully permeated in it and received the new set of eyes in order to
be protected from its permeation and also to be able to see through the
darkness and wet, fine dust that floats throughout the air.

On the walls, there is a saturation to such a degree that it almost moves,
and there is a permeation of mold throughout. Mold on the walls, floor,
ceiling-- everything permeated in the mold.. and whatever it is that has
saturated everything. I have now entered so far into the room that all I
can see is shadows.  It has become that dark.
There is a sense of movement.
It is large-- behemoth even, methodically slow in it's self caught-up world.
It is perpetrator. Abuser-- And it only knows one thing--
destruction of anything of life for its own gain.  It cannot see me
because I am permeated in the foulness of its own perpetual emission--
The walls.. they are *** soaked. The air is filled with an ever-evaporating
mist of pungency. The only life form attached to it is mold, a fungus
which covers every square inch of floor, wall and ceiling.
I am not afraid, because I know that what I want is in the room also--
and I know that the only thing perpetrator can see is what hasn't been
permeated by the filth-- and so as I move.. remembering to place my
right hand over the back side of my left--
covering the only part of me that is not his.

Protected by the fact that I have become permeated in and with the
outcome of his abusing ways, I am hidden from all that he is,
as long as I keep that part of me covered.
I begin to move slowly around the room knowing that I cannot be seen,
but needing also to make not an ounce of sound. I am looking-- searching.
In the corner is a small discarded pile of ***** rags, and there my
eyes focus as I slowly move towards it. Perpetrator has begun to
shuffle off towards another smaller room that I have just begun to
become aware of. I head towards the small pile of rags.
I can feel him-- someone else in the room. The one I came for.

I move towards the rags on the floor there in the corner of the room
and I can see him-- just a part of his hand sticking out from underneath
the pile of rags; he is face down. All my focus is on him now, as I kneel
down next to him and sit alongside him-- pulling the rags off of his
head, revealing the side of his face. He is face down with eyes closed,
barely breathing-- barely a pulse.. only kept alive by the perpetrator to
serve his purpose. I am with him now and his brokenness takes over
me. I cannot touch him with any part of the permeated filth.

I reach out with the unaffected four inches of skin on the back side of my
hand, and touch it to his face. There's a slight movement, but he
remains face down. He's just a little boy, but because of the horrors
he was subjected to, I knew not to try to move him--
the trauma of just the slightest movement would **** him.
And if I were to look directly into his eyes, the light I had brought into
his broken, dark world, would have burned the back of his retinas and
ended what little pulse and breathing he had remaining. This is where I
want to be, even if the only thing that I can do just let him feel the
warmth and cleanness of my skin through the back of my hand against
his face.

I feel him quietly breathing it in.
He never opens his eyes-
face down still-- pain.
It takes all the energy he has;
just to survive.. to breathe.

And outside of the warmth of my hand, I know
that he may never again have the chance
to see the light of day--
he is broken, abandoned.

This is where I want to be.. but to be near the broken-one of my heart, I
have had to wear the 'full outcome' of perpetrator, and know full well
through what I have learned when young that I'm putting myself at risk--
of forever being banished to hell for what I have 'chosen to wear'.
I will stay with the broken one wherever that may be. This is where
my heart is most at home (the times I'm not with my little ones).
If heaven doesn't want to let me.. or the broken one in,
then I don't want to be there.
I will stay here with him, and if hell is his final resting place..
then it will be mine also--
perpetrator cannot see me here-- destructor will not see me there,
and I will sit with broken-one forever.

But for now I must return at the end of the five days-- climbing once
again back up the shaft and receiving the washing that happens once
daily life sees the four inch patch-- I am clean again in order to play
with and love my little ones.. holding them and protecting them from
the daylight-perpetrators as best as I can.. and as I love them and look into
them, I look into the broken one also. He is with me in my heart even
then. I will be with him again soon and also once again with my little ones.
    I am both.
They will grow up and become responsible loving adults with children
of their own. Broken one will always remain young and broken.
I will remain with him forever--come hell or high water.
He is me.. and every broken-one who has ever had to suffer alone.
It is with the broken ones that I will always want to be.

I live within the four square inches of my skin.

the forming of substance 04
Stephan W

"For years I’ve wanted to live
according to everyone else’s morals.
I’ve forced myself to live like everyone else,
to look like everyone else.
I said what was necessary to join together,
even when I felt separate.

And after all of this, catastrophe came.

Now I wander amid the debris,
I am lawless, torn to pieces,
alone and accepting to be so,
resigned to my singularity and to my infirmities.

And I must rebuild a truth–
after having lived all my life in a sort of lie."
~Albert Camus


~
Worlds apart,
there is a tension
an alienation--

now, strangers-
in a not so strange land

So many parts..
fighting the glow
fighting each other-

These parts, hiding--
From having to be seen- when needed,

From the pain of
having to need the other parts
who also are so unable,

From the visibility--
from having to be asked to join in-
to the process of
an integrated internal functioning;
the metabolizing of things.

From the pain of it all-
and the despondency that will come
from any attempt
         to even try.

~  ~
The spirit--
its dimly-lit distant memories
of a wholly different time

now afraid to ingrain itself
into a body- that is as of yet
wholly unable to even know itself--

Fragmented parts of the heart;
broken spirit,
a lonely longing-

There is a division
a separation
immersed in a dank mist of fear--

Parts-- nearly touching
but, so unable to see..

or even feel each other in the dark

And the greatest loneliness
becomes the one that is lived within oneself--

An unlived-living
within the broken internal-world
of fragmented parts-
now huddled into remote corners
with such large spaces in between;

parts, isolated from
other parts.

~  ~  ~
One day they will no longer be
so afraid of each other--

Even in its dimly-lit state of being,
the spirit yearns for a cohesiveness,
a wholeness--

      a re-integration of all the parts;
      a reassembling.

Until that time, everything will be partial;
dis- assembled


                  fragmented.

A funny thing about forever..
--it never, ever ends..

and so   neither will we.

The spirit is free from
all of this-- it will  always
remain lit..

only the flesh goes dark  
as we  leave  its earth-laden husk, behind..

But the core-heart of Love's true ache  will always,
always Remain.

paulSN

Don't speak directly to her--
you will melt the skin  off
  her bone-frame

Instead, find the parallel-words--

ones that will float alongside her
as she walks, so as she is able-
she can pluck them--  like
wild roses along the highway

Sometimes, love takes a
   tremendous
amount of creativity--

the name of the game is
  its destination
not the control of its path

Darkness...

As she once again
slips back into herself--
down beneath the ocean's,
tumbling waves.

I am yapping alot..
about things..
those pertaining to Life--

about things that make us well
about things that make us un-well.

About a world
that acts so much  like
it cares.

She withers..
within her heart's  need  to Love
within a much less  than loving,
world

My beautiful has slipped under,
but only for a little while
or maybe  a couple of those whiles
if necessary

She is re-grouping..
           re-charging..

Often,  just very barely  
holding on

.    .    .    

I will wait here,   Believing..
that within the Universe's
deep Love for her,
there will be a re-gathering

Leading back
to the most beautiful,  

   of gatherings.

When Love's scalpel  comes
towards my beautiful Gloria--

  she leans in to it

What is it that makes  this one
  believe
at such a tremendous  cost
to to herself

and yet, so many others
turn and run..
turn and hide?

I was built-- from the ground,  up
to help  hold ones
such as yourself,  up

as the bright   healing light  
of loves ache

dismantles  the intricacies  of our
once-necessary, life-built  
war machines..

yes, my beauty--
down to the very  core

of  your  foundation,
where you can finally  
have the chance

     to become  rebuilt:

from the ground's  true bedrock,
up

The Life-giving embers..
stoking the hearth-fire,  heart
in you  that had nearly gone out,
is nothing less that the deep
gentle,  Loving-kindness
of the Wellspring's  warm flow.

Love  feels, more than it sees..
but when one truly sees, beautiful girl--
as you so well at times know..

the view is utterly breathtaking.

You are learning how  
to breathe  the beautiful, free air.
Grace does that.


You are the most incredible of spokespersons, love...
Your very voice-tones..

They don't exist yet,  you know--

the words' Babe..   the words..
At least..  not here on Earth   yet,
  they don't.

They are hurting--
the broken-ones  
that you love so deeply

And  the ones  
such as yourself--   chosen
to bring them the Message,

are broken too.

In fact, it is within your brokenness
that pieces of the Message  
                are made perfect--  
You

who were  so unjustly treated
at such a tender  young age..

You have Chris's  presence
and Chester's,  fragmented heart
You.. who are the New-Light's  flame..

     Sent down..  for us,
     to overcome
     this  ****** up, Death-sting.
.

Within you, 
will be  the New Unfolding
    And from you,  will come
    the words Chester and Chris only knew,

                                             on the other side  
                            of their devastating  choice.

Would that I could gather your houses into my hand,
and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets,
and the green paths your alleys,
that you might seek one another through vineyards,
and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together.
And that fear shall endure a little longer.
A little longer shall your city walls separate  your hearths
from your fields.

And tell me, people of OrphaIese, what have you in these houses?
And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances..
the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things
fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort,
that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest,

..and then becomes a host and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer,
and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep
only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses,
and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul,
and then walks grinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest,
you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound,
but an eyelid that guards the eye.

You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors,
nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling,
nor fear to breathe  lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendor,
your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.

For that which is boundless in you
abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist,
and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

~ Khalil Gibran

Your beautiful heart's glow is so often hidden behind the clouds of stubborness--  your lack of ownership within pretty much everything that is about who it is that you truly are. You ride.. skirting on the edges, never truly committing to much of anything that is inside of you.. putting pieces of yourself out there, yet never truly taking ownership of much of anything that truly is of you. You may feel things in their fullness that is of you within certain, contained moments, but the glow of those glimpses into your own self is far too often short-lived-- within something in you that almost completely washes it all away..

The nearly predictible pendulum-swing now so far the other way, almost completely denying those very real moments of connectedness and inner clarity within you..

And I am not one to want to live and operate between the swing's extremes, as it is there at that place that you expect others to pick up all of these un-owned pieces for you, and it is there also at that place that you have a whole string of men-- now.. and in your past, who all tumble and orbit in your wake in their desire to put together for you things that were never theirs to put together..

They were always things for you to take ownership of and become accountable for, but you will have no part of that, and so here you now float within all of your unaccountability, and will continue to float- as long you continue in your choice to not fully engage within yourself.
.. And you go on and say that I do not care about your heart, but you do not own much of anything that is about that amazing heart that is within you,
so how would you even know?

You don't..  but even if you did,
it would all but become buried once again within all that is unowned within you.

Loving in to a system like that, is not a good stewardship of one's ability to love.. so if there is some remote form of goodbye embedded within these nearly indiscernible conveyances..
then I thank you in advance for its  gracious release. You are not getting any younger, my beautiful.. one day this beauty-laden, cloud to cloud game of hide and seek is no longer going to work quite so well

And it was at that time.. in group..
when I realized that I had attained
enough healing, and could now enter
back into the normal   every day, world
that I looked back at her..
she.. who I had struggled alongside in
the trenches with for over two years
now-- each of us struggling just to hold
on.. in a crazy, ****** up world, that
just did not care

Yet still, she struggled to hold on to
who she was-- her spirit, coming and
going at will, as she attempted to deal
with the depths of her trauma..
her beautiful blue eyes, turning to dull
grey in those Ichabod-like moments,
when there was nothing left,  

but complete emptiness.

And as I announced that I was leaving
the group, she gasped..  I saw those
beautiful blues  go grey-- her small
hands, reaching for me..
her once, cherub-like face, now ashen
and tear soaked,  quietly pleading..

and it was at that moment, that I sat
back down-- putting back on once
again, death's skin.. all past dreams of
normalcy, fading away in to her grey..

the color, blue.. the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen..

--And,

After picking her beautiful
jaw  up, off the ground
over the shock-blast of  realizing
that  she (after all of these years)
   had been  finally seen..

there was a shuffling  noise
that I could hear in the background
over the phone..

and I couldn't tell  if it  was her--

scrambling to finish  filling out
the restraining order she started
last week

or maybe  
just  flopping around  in the dark
in her search for the block button

But perhaps..  just perhaps
she is running upstairs  to find  for herself,  
a dry pair of *******

Or better yet,  in order to
race into her room,  her clothes--
strewn,  in a wake behind her
in her overwhelming  need

to knock out  a whole series  of
wildly uncontrollable, release (s)

Strange how it is
that  far too often  these things
can go either way--
yet either way, sweet love

your beautiful jaw
will never again,  be the same

Xo

Selmhem Naise

Remember the movie
"Terminator"--
the first one?
Sarah was being hunted
and Kyle was sent back
in time
to protect her from
the machine-made Terminator

  whose only purpose in life was to end hers.

How was he to know that
when he entered into her world;
    he was going to fall so deeply?
And without his entrance
into her life--  he
would have no reason
to come across time for her--
the fruit of their love
would have never been born--

the very reason
for the very reason  of the killer's mission.

To try to figure out
and understand
where this perpetual cycle
of love began,  would
bog the mind--

      all that can be done
      is acceptance
      or rejection
           of that love.


      Yeah, but what a love it was--
      Kyle came across time for her.

She's gone

And all the years
of holding in
Of denying  my truth
in order to protect her
from-

     the truth ..

Of the horrors that she has done
Of the horrors
they both have done.

They are both gone now
No longer inhabitants
of this earth
No longer here
to bring the risk
of making little
what it was
that was not so very little

Even if they owned it
who could find the words?
There are not words
to describe the horrors

Are there left  enough years
to make up for the ones
the locusts have eaten?


    There  are no words
    to ever be able  to describe

    just  how  much  
    the locusts have eaten

Selmhem Naise

Keep writing
about the
indescribable
because your way of
describing it
is a description all its own.

In the magic of your words
you are able to somehow make
the intangible almost feel
as though it can become tangible.
(obtainable)

And for myself-- It takes all
I have to keep from being
drawn-in too deeply into
your words. I do best
by letting the words
all but destroy me; so
that there's not a lot left of me
(my-destructive side)  to
bring itself to the table.

The destruction I feel-  there's
an immediate tearing down of
    despair

and an instantaneous building up
of hope and celebration--

    the true  deeper side of me
    absolutely digs that ****.
Ya true story.

the forming of substance 07
Stephan W

Radiance.

Within the void  are
the greatest mysteries of the universe,
as matter and anti-matter clash;
only to create a newfound energy..
un-owned, unaccountable, unconcerned--
the energy emerging from the clash negates itself
through mutual annihilation; leading to an increase
of space between what it is that is lit; and in
the accelerated rate of expansion of this space,
Illuminated/illuminating  matter takes on the risk
of being removed from participatory perception,
or better said-- to a place beyond retrieve..

and so it is also-
within the void of space that exists within us;
the galaxy-within--
ever-swinging in polarity between the gravity-pull
of illuminating/illuminated substance,
and the ever-distancing properties of
an unowned, unlit space...
dark Energy-- a repulsive force,
attempting to quantify the space between
all that truly matters--
yes.. creating space,
and therefore more room
for it to engage into its ever-increasing
chaotic activity.. quantitatively participating in
its fine art of distraction, dilution
and extortion of time
through nothing other than the negation of matter,
and therefore, the negation of potentiality--
of substance, and so also
the transmission of light.. luminosity:

      parts within the heart, lit up with
      and by the infusion of our own spirits,
      through the beautiful act of volition,

of which, the countless galaxies in the universe
exist as a type, given.. (what-if)...
if only to encourage us through amazing,
mesmerizing example--
surrounded, each.. by a circumference of support
of the dark matter of potentiality--
providing the gravity of containment,
solely in and through its belief in its own possibility,
giving way to its utter inability to deny itself to
what has become already lit,
becoming then.. not only a defining part of the galaxy,
but also a gravitational-formed hedge of protection
against the everpull-entropy of the repulsive force--
of all that is unaccountable-
in its velocity-based separation from volition.


      And, so it is with the universe,
      so, also.. the universe-within;
      Having left its glass-globe sphere,

      this spirit-centered cosmos
      now unfolds, within skin.

the forming of substance 02
Stephan W
(fallen, from grace)
~

It is with the finest of graces  that
lips were seared into a silent forgetting;

    the burning coal was a gift--

The newly-born cries,
but with a long lost forgetting.
What it witnessed from within the sphere--
what it saw, no longer a menace in its perfection

And so, trust and hope
enter into the young child's world-
not as an unnatural occurrence
or that of chance,

but as a natural attachment into the primal,
residual imprint left on the spirit;  pre-birth--

That of perfection--
needs met before they were ever expressed..
before they were even felt--
The spirit-- wholly encased in being Loved,
in being fully known.

Hope and trust, a gradual remembering
of that perfection- an aligning into what is
already imprinted into the DNA of the spirit,
(when attached to and within a body of skin)--

    by being given a chance..
                        just a chance.
~ ~

Warmth, and kindness
is Love's re-lighting of the candle--
flickering dimly at first, but- if not abused,
always received-
much like one would receive an old friend.

The hope and trust of a child
is Love's way of introducing Magic into the world-
Through the spirit's own remembering  of
its own primal instinct--

That, of perfection;   fully loved..
within the  presence, of absolute perfection.

PaulSN

She moved towards me
with an  unparalleled
Grace;
and in doing so,
poured Living water  over
an ancient, Jezebelian wound--
  still bleeding;
  cut-- deeply

across  my battle-scarred chest.

And,
in a timeless,  ancient world;
the healing she brought  to me
b e c a m e
a healing  for all mankind--
  in,
and through
the healing of woman-kind;

as she   b r e a t h e d   out to me
   a kiss,
along the edge of
a faint scar-line;

the one  that
just above my hip--
gave hint..

of a missing rib.

"What,  you just love me
and then move on..
is that what you do?"
They weren't steps away from her
they were paces

and in an instant, the arrow flew

There is a seam,  
if you are able to see
as there are terracotta dreams
from which

we were  all  meant to be freed

Broken shards  fell to the ground
and inside of every single piece

     is all of the 'hers'
     she thinks that  she needs to be

Not sure if it is the aim
or  the flight  of the arrow
that brings about the aloneness
of an unspeakable,  heart sorrow
and these.. the sufferings of hell.

     Chloe is not dead--
     because  left standing
     when all else fell
     is her spirit's core,  now glowing;

     ..no longer hidden  
     within the confines
     of her terracotta shell.

Ah, beautiful Chloe
baby, there were times..

                remember knowing?
      The water-well;
      ..its  never-ending flowing.

      Believe again in that, my beautiful

              not  the shell.
--Anything is better than this hatred.

         I'm looking forward  to
         an eternity, spent in hell.

There is a stream
  in our theme,
a  river that flows through us--
that stream is us.

In the stream, whose name is
"All it is that We Are",
there  is a continuity--  
a common ground  
in  everything that the
    stream contains;

    it is ours,
    our substance-- our essence.
    .   .

Place your hand
into your stream
and feel
    who it is that you are,
and know that as you do,
every part    of
what it is that  m o i s t e n s
your arm  

    is that which is of you..
        you are   t a n g i b le.

The stream is yours--
    who.  you.  are.  
ever-flowing, yet tangibly  felt
at any given time.

This stream, also aptly named
"Substance of Being"--    from
beginning to end  contains
    within it
    all of what it is that is yours--

      and yours alone.
      .   .   .    

Jump, beautiful one--
right smack dab  into
the middle of it, and
feel yourself  in its entirety--

        beginning to end,

    yet,
with no beginning that can be seen
and no end.. save the vast sea--  
the  beautiful final destination  
  of all streams.

    .   .   .   .  

  Feel yourself flow in it
  and know it is you--

  bank to bank;
    the stream is you.

paulSN

There was this one bench we
used to sit on with our legs
   dangling.
Do you remember that-- how
we used to look down at our feet
as we swung them
back and forth?

I did so well--
       until I would look up at those eyes.

You said that when two people
care about each other
their feet should swing in unison.
I was too embarrassed to tell you
the truth--

   that every time I looked in your eyes
   my legs would go numb.

I tried to tell you then that
nerds weren't supposed to look
the way that you do.

Even now I look at your picture
      you left with me--

           and my legs go numb all over again.

And one more time I try to forgive myself.


Nerds aren't supposed to look like that.
It says that--

         somewhere in the manual
      it does.

                               I think.

Stephan W

I have seen you there,
standing alone, along the shoreline
    --if you only knew--
Your thoughts- a poetic buffering,
spoken out- onto weathered paper,
through trembling hands;  words
let in to the ocean wind--
the dreams of your heart, the needs,
ah, yes.. the deep needs of your heart...

    among these rocks,
    you are always alone.
    ~

At the tip of your fingers-- the small ridges;
fragmental, yet monumental imprints, etched
in to you, the moment your spirit entered
your temple. They tell the world of your story:
through fine, texture-perception, you feel it--
your trembling fingers grip the pen, expressing,
conveying your truth into a world that does not
hear.. a shallowing, that deafens..

    You glance at your fingertips--
    to assure, you're really there
    ~ ~

(The sea has picked up a bit, now
the waves, crashing against the rocks
rocks, that still won't hear..)

And here also, outlined
within the warm beat of the
human heart,
there is a sound that can be heard--
one similar to the aliveness
of the crashing waves.
Place your fingertips against those
that are real-
the sound blends-in perfectly
with the sea
as the uniqueness of imprinted ridge,
moves up against that of the other--
contrasting, here.. fitting together
perfectly, there..

    Scream, "I am!" to the sea; and see, love..
    scream it out, and see.
    ~ ~ ~

I am everywhere near you-- encouraging,
celebrating.. at times, weeping;  hands
outstretched, the uniqueness of my
own finger prints, longing
Along this shoreline, I have watched you
for an eternity, hoping
that you might somehow take it all, in.
Clouds beckon, asking again for the
earth's moisture

      and I respond,  e v ap o r a t i ng.

      ~ ~ ~ ~

Your small, beautiful feet, now
all pigeon-toed- now, standing
at the water's edge; as the
rain cloud gives up its prize
just beyond the breakers--

    (my imprint remains,
    but I am of the sea now..)

    Wade into me, love
    that I may wrap myself around you:
    Along this shoreline,
    may you never be alone again.

Dirt poor  and
down trodden,
he didnt ask for this
this life  among the fallen--

My fuckerface,  he paid his dues
among the homes of the forgotten

Scandinavian/Cherokee was his pa
(tho not for long)
Crow Creek Sioux and German,  his ma..

and all along the Rosebud rez
his half-breed skin,  rubbed raw.


Ah,  my beautiful  sweet fuckerface--
you are  the finest  blood-brother
of them all.

paulSN

Is it asking  too much
to want to hide away  safely?
I never should have met you

yet, I have been  looking
for you all of my life--

  unwillingly.

You are in me now
so deep;  our spirit's gears  perfectly
synced- each gear a pre-honed..
  precision fit--
                even when we clash

                Especially-  when we clash;
                and somewhere,
                in the depths of  my love

                I hate you for that

                
      In a broken world...
      dreams were  n e v e r  meant
      to come true.

      I think I read that  somewhere,
      or maybe someone told me..

      maybe

    
              or something.

I wrote that to you..

from the waiting room of my eye doctor
but I didn't know it sent. I was grinding on my jeep Sunday
and got a piece of metal in my eye the size of a farm tractor,

    but all is well after this second visit  👀

A couple of reasons for the multiple accounts..
Originally started as my way of satiring the many people
on the site that use multiple accounts to put likes and
comments on their own work in order to make it trend..
or even make the 'daily'..
or to stroke themselves  with compliments
so horrendously..  uh, dishonestly.
But me being the battle-hardened, ******* nonconform
that I am, the first time I commented on my own piece,
my own account made fun of myself
to such a degree..
   it ended up in a fistfight--
But it was me..  just ******* up
the whole trolling process.
I always tell the ones that I care
about  who all is 'me'.
I also phase popular ones of mine  out  
      and replace them with new ones  
          if that one is getting too noticed on the site.

That way I don't garner too many followers, which I believe
quenches one's freedom that is lost within the  obligatory
'give and take' mindset that is a cancer  on this
and so many other online writing sites.

Vogel started talking to you when I was no longer
scared of how quickly you got in with me.
I talk like crazy when someone like you gets in to the inner-core
of me so easily..  just by being the way that you are.
The babbling provides a canopy of structure..  Love's structure.
Strange, I know..  but I don't like being scared.
Its a boundary-thing..
and there is so little about ones like you
that even remotely slows down
the process of getting in..

and   I'm-a..  uh..
"I'm a loner, Dottie.. a rebel.."
~Peewee Herman

yeah.. that.

The accounts keep me safe from the
general public  by bringing
pieces of me out, relationally onto the screen  as a way of
providing for myself, the warm cover of love's structure--

   me..  with me.
All so very strange sounding, I'm sure.

I really enjoy watching you, kid.
I'm so sorry for bombing you with all those wordy messages
when we met. Your unique heart, mind, and spirit
are everything perfect in my eyes..  yes..  even with all of your
current broken,  fragmented pieces.
You were recently maybe under some form of a psyche-hold,
which is probably where the psyche eval came from.
Some in the mental health field care deeply..  many are just
going through the motions-- originally thinking it was
for them, and then finding out what the true cost
of love really is,  before slinking back into a foot-shuffling
process..   even as psychologists,  
and often  even medical psychiatrists (prescribers)--

    Who love to find a name for things so they can 'expertly'
    enter into relationship with what now has a name,
    rather than the deeply-hurting person.

Everybody wants the ****, beautiful-voiced girl who stands
a very good chance of making her mark so well in this world.
I would trade access to the 'best' part of it all with you,  
just to have the chance to be with you,  for even 5 minutes  
on that **** and tear-soaked, psyche room floor.

That is where I want to be.

My multiple "friends" keep me free..
unencumbered..  deeply-loved..
  .. ready.  
Broken-down, and pitch-black within the darkness of all its
despair. That is where it is that I would trade all things for,
    in order to be..
with you..  deep in to the very   r e a l   of  it  all..
if you ever fell down that temporarily far.

Everything I do is for that moment.  
My "friends" give me strength.  They believe in me
because I so deeply believe in my loved self.

       Hence, the ability to go anywhere
       you may one day have to go.


       Sorry, kid.. but you asked.

"From the days of John the Baptist until now,
the kingdom of heaven has been advancing forcefully..
and the violent, seize it by force."
--Jebs


ahem..

By 'his scrawny little neck' she grabs him
and  pulls  Him,  from  his  Throne--
"******' know it all..  he don't know ****.."
    blurts out  she--

    the all-seeing,  ever defining one.

The paint on her war-brush
is the blackest of blacks..
     as she  brands  me

     for  the  o r b it i ng,  of her
     that  I  so clearly  lack

And an ability that is all hers,
       not mine--
      The one, self-given..
      the  power  to define.

And, she wonders where mine came from;
me-- who was once a mother's son..
As I  ******  the grown-up  a l l  of me
in to every unhealed part  of her
      that  f e e l s   just like 
      dear-old Mom.

I was young once, my beautiful..
helplessly.. (almost hopelessly)  
subject,  to it all
        --but no more,   my sweet
          ever-painting,  honeybee

That black, babe-- it don't stick..
                        no,   not no more.


Ah, Baby..
   ...   can you hear me..?

From the sodden, trundled forest floor the trees reached higher
than he ever imagined possible-- pine needles from the conif,
blending in  perfectly with those, broadleaf.. a strange, almost
absurd-feeling; symmetry- in a world, nothing more than
cluttered and confused--
           in the eyes of a small-one, now subject..

And now as a grown man,
I return to the disenchanted forest..
       in order to bring enchantment.
At the edge of the rustic, one-room
cabin, I pause..
choosing to peer in, rather than enter--
my world-hardened hands,  now pressed against
cracked window glass--

opaque, but still..

           I can see..

Inside the small room is as if a cosmo to itself-- there is a large
ring of dark water, surrounding what
seems to me to be a small island,
     yet still, I can feel her..  
           sense her glow..
And magnificent   within
her solitude and silence..
she is strong,
and firm-- her war-torn heart, gathered and secure..
all boundaries, seemingly intact--
        but there is a teeming..
        a never-ending movement
        of some form of life-

..in what I had once thought a ring of dark water,
but can now see as if some kind of a fear-hewn moat..
and the movement within, none other than that
           of those trying to reach her.

She is the prize,
pulled away from the threat of harm
       by her intricately created world.

And there is this black movement above her..    what is that?  
Moving in rhythmic synchronization..
             like a flock of starlings maybe..
The wings that give them flight, are bat-like and sharp..
and only varying sections at a time  of the flock's movement
alight on to her..
as other ones take flight and rejoin the ever-moving,
          ever-shifting flock's shape..

..and as each changing of the guard takes place,
the inhabitants of the moat change color--  

the light, now reflecting through the small window
and bringing a matching glow to my arm..

And though I remain unaffected by the color of light,
I see the whole nature of the moat, conform to each color's change..

And it is then that I realize
that the birds  are the pieces of her fragmented heart,
and the changing colors,  her perceived reality..
based on whatever portions of her heart are inside of her
at any given time.

The moat provides the distance,
yet one without its inhabitants even knowing
they are in it--

changing color in order to fit in to
              her ever-changing reality.


I will never enter into the moat..
and the color change is hers, not mine.
I am more distant to her now
than even those, of the moat..
and my refusal to change color
will always be a point of contention--
but for her, I am the only one who sees,
I am the only one who knows

about the island, the starlings.. the moat.

She loves me so much,
she hates me.

My prayer for her is that one day,
that whole flock of starlings will alight on to her..
      and never, ever leave.

Maybe on that day also, her moat filled with
Mona Lisas and Madhatters,  will finally, dry up..

and that her color perception  
will become  the colors that truly are,
            rather than those, of her ever-changing, shift


A disenchanted forest--  enchanted, once again.

~M Vogel
asleep  at the wheel

A smoothe sail, set
a body of water, deep
brings about the greatest need
for trust

And who are you to me
as we float?
And I, to myself  whether under full sail
or land-locked,
the waves.. as they roll, will not scuttle
whether  within a depth, beyond fathom
or a curbside built dam, a child-made puddle

there is nothing that can pull, down
but the weight  of my own, bitter keel
and there's nothing in the ocean, lower
than the way, my own actions
can so often,  make me feel
In this ocean, floating
there is a world of un-doing

                            and re doing

The water, being a conduit
pulling from me, nautical miles
of the, unforgiven--
an ocean of changing emotions
under late-evening skies of sometimes, torrent
pulling me deeper into the need   to contain
the containment,  of the need

The dark skies, are where I go
within  the allowance of the need, to become freed
of all  of these obligatory-vestments.
This ocean, so deep--
the one  inside of me

carrying me away  

to a place called, containment.

Selmhem Naise

Too much pain in this one
it's no longer fun--  no
not so fun.
Another world--  with
another Sun
    where I can run.

I just want to run in the Sun.

But it can't be too far from
this one,  so
I make a parallel one--
with a parallel Sun.

Where I can have fun--
                                   as I run.

In the safe one,  I
can run,
and in the parallel Sun
with
my parallel fun--

                   I run in both.

Stephan W

My beauty is resisting the worldly pull-- to
slip into lethargic un-consciousness,
in order to no longer feel the anxiety
brought about by non-response to the
primal-question's asking,

But instead is choosing to feel it all-- and in
doing so- it, is costing her everything.
Everything.
She is showing us all what true courage is about,
suffering for the greater good:
for that which is within herself
for her children
for all womankind-- and therefore, for all of man-kind also.
She is the firstfruits of the Universe's
deepest dream; that of a full restoration,
allowing herself to be cut-open, internal parts, rearranged,
heart regenerated, rebuilt through love's magical ways
her mind, being renewed through understanding,
repetition of love's true ways, washing it clean
from the shame unfairly pressed upon her
by the broken, fallen love of man

She is the new Eve-- this beautiful-one,
free from the need to re-create what love is--
she is open, believing.. her beautiful receptors-
perfectly aligned with the harmonic-tones
emanating from the garden, as she walks.

And I.. Adam, love her deeply.
There is an ache with in my side-- a reminder
of my consent of its removal
so that I would no longer have to be so alone in all this magic
and as I struggle, taking in all that is beautiful about her,
I see now that she was not produced from me,
the man

But that I was the oyster,
and she, the beautiful pearl--
the one beyond all price,
the shimmering diamond-- formed,
within this lovestrong lump of coal;

over millions, and millions of years.

I sit in awe as I watch her
she has been worth every moment
of the wait.

Along the priarielands--
rolling hills   previously
  roamed 
by wild buffalo.

Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge

     and now you--

You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass

    and not a blade is broken.

Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves 
        out on the sea.

Me.. watching you
      move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural.. 

   and moving with understanding;

   flowing--
   ever-growing

   knowing.. sweetly knowing
   that there's a glowing
   from what you are showing--  me;

   Not a blade of grass or crop is
   ever harmed by your movements
      instead.. like me, they thrive--

      leaning into you 
      whenever you are near.
             .       .       .

      I am the grass
      the blade
      the crop-- ready for harvest
      the bison
      and the upland bird

      the forever wave hello
      of the tall grass of the prairie.

      And you are as much a
      part of it all
      as you are  of me.

      Like the native grass
      and the native Lakota
         that have  both
      always  known its ways..

      you were always meant to be here.

D Zwieble

Remember the story,
about the beautiful-hearted girl,
trapped in the ship,  sinking..

     and how he saw her--
    through the porthole,

        made his way through it,

                            and saved her--

by pressing his mouth to hers
so that she could  become  able to breathe,
as she finally exited the ship

        and made her way back up
                               to the surface..

    He loved her enough
    to be her very air  at the time she
      needed it most.
      He still loves her.


      I always will.

Stephan W

Muse-induced,  I slip
into a dreamstate--

                      I am floating.

Third-heaven bound,  I am
caught up into  a
galaxy-pull,  cloud hidden
I am bent around objects--
    the very empirical nature  of
    light itself,
drawn into an orbit  that,
always mine--  had
    been waiting for me all along

                          I am home now--


                   Away from this pain
           Away from  death's  stain
  ..away from all of my inabilities

You are screaming at me and I'm in tears
your face peeled back
in deep contempt of my need
I am just a little boy and my head hurts and it
is a sin to hope that my aspirin could be cut

because I can't swallow the pills and they get
stuck in my throat, burning. My head is
spinning

and I'm falling down, a shaken baby
syndrome..
black around my eyes--
which one of you shook me?
Who did this to me, I'm just a little boy
peaceful in heart,
yet horror stricken; and the anger builds
Unexpressed words defining injustice, are
swallowed

once again, deeper:    evil excels in its clothing
a child in shame, within the denial of its own wrongdoing.
Years of hard work, dismantle the shame..
remove condemnation's heavy, mantle;
but this rage.. this deeply embedded injustice-scream?

A lifetime has not enough years to  undo
what the locusts have eaten

And I am only half of it...
a ***** in my armor, and I fall
A cheap shot, my hands now empty
the fire of my temple, now dust..

Lay me there, beside her--
she, that tore me down, she who I now
forgive
a beautiful boy, a broken son
in death, makes his peace with mom
his burial place, once again
back, in her arms

This is the home I choose
I forgive you, Momma, be my resting-place now,
my home--

my anger, my hatred.. contempt
purged, by cremation's holy fire
all glory and honor,  now yours

as the once-broken little boy
curls up safely, in your arms
Your beautiful son has returned,
back home:

     God.. and a mother's love,
                             rest his soul.

the forming of substance 06
Stephan W

the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self--  apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from   a n y
attachment to glory

And so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete

in its own,  utter incompleteness.

~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.

~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.

But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
torn from us
as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place--
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

  and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~

You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment

your usury..

       your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits..
  a   d i s m e m b e r i ng--

making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.


We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.


    And then you'll be the one
    who will be ******.
    ******