of This World, Not a single mote of dust exists, neither the peaks of Kilimanjaro - not this moment, not this breath, Not the beat of a drum, nor even eternity, and neither blood.
Our Mother
Whose name is of Art,
praise to thy beauty,
that drives the Beat of our Hearts.
give us
Our nights
of Divine Passion,
& bless us - so that
we may never shy
from the
Absolute comfort of
Solitude.
Lead us
to the persistence
of Folly &
the Destruction
of Slavery.
For thine
is the love, &
the mercy, &
the grace
and the Wild yearning.
Forever,
And Ever More.
Poem from my book "The Day After i Died"; the title is a auditory play on the Lankavatara Sutra of Mahayana Buddhism. If you say "Of Tara" aloud, it'll be apparent, clear.
