On Thursday evening
I pray near a Grave in Kashmir
Lit in bundles
Aroma makes me feel
As I kneel
This is land of my forefathers
Where they rest
I too look for a place nearest
I belong to these graves
Here my soul craves
To sleep till eternity
In the Eden of divinity
What else Should I ask
That has more dignity
you are a spark out of a dying ember, phoenix of my life. where one dies, another is born, and you are the lantern of the light in my darkness.
I am raw and unhinged, while you are dreamy and uninhibited. the colors of the iridescent webs you weave leave me breathless as I examine each gossamer strand.
you are artemis, the goddess of the hunt; protector of all creatures great and small. I, being a mere red fox, fall under your care. your empathetic abilities radiate so much love, and fluctuate to meet my moods and emotions.
you are as if nature and nurture collided together through the stars as they formed you.
you weave your celestial lights in the sky, my aurora borealis. you are an ethereal essence made of light and love ribboning in the night.
I want to bottle you up and keep your eternal light by my bedside to guide me throughout life – to finally say that I own and have a small piece of something of perfect divinity in nature; but I know this can't be the case.
you are wild and free; untamed by man. but I know somehow, just like the moon; you will return to me each night.
I’ve begun to hate the whole ‘I contain multitudes’ idea.
I hate every breath I have taken since I was twelve, I hate how I’ll never be okay with who I am, and I hate how this concept of containing multitudes means there’s more about myself that I will uncover and hate, again.
I hate how your curtains are chrome yellow, I hate how it spills sunlight on the scattered prints on your bedsheets that I’ve come to hate. I hate how my feet are either too cold outside, or too hot under the blanket, I hate how my neck both desires and dislikes pillows. I hate how I am never comfortable with comfort: I hate how your fingers pressing between my shoulder blades don’t relax me. I hate that I can only love if I hold it up against all that I hate.
I hate how I lie with your arm beneath my head and my mind just above it, thinking of all the things that I hate and how I never hated you. I hate how I write about you, how I hide it from you. I hate how I never said these things to you. I hate how I hate myself but never hesitate to glorify you.
I hate how I say things to make you despise me, how I twist your words to despise you, how I set us on fire and wanted you to save just me.
How delusional of me to want to worship every inch of your skin with my lips. How delusional of me to want to be divine and not lowly, to love and not to ravage.
How delusional of me to love when I can only hate.
/The flowers pushed through the earth, Hallelujah
/The peaches evermore sweet
/A breath of the sun, kissing your neck
/Droplets tickle the edge of the grass
/Colorful organisms settle on the waterside
/A bird’s loose feather sunders the running stream
/Divinity rested on one’s bones
/Rested and peaceful
Heaven is not too far, where you can’t glimpse it
You're beautiful, To me,
my hope in the morning light and dream in the dusk of night
The sight of you opens more doors in my life than even the greatest of writings
Your beautiful eyes make me shed more tears than the Grimmest funeral
I see no earth, no creation without you in it.
Importance opens my eyes, as I do not have love for people, I cannot see a world where I must live without you.
Your auburn locks shine through my very soul, the sunlight gives your face a heavenly glow, so radiant that only a fool wouldn't fall for you,
My Angel, forgive me my carelessness but I feel only love for you and I don't believe that any words could ever describe your beauty and divinity but tried I have to explain the extent of my feelings for
you as I sit here and think, I hope to see you again and open my heart to you personally
Like I always desired in the first place.
I tremble violently
the spirits dine with me
a feast of illusions break me
because sleep is a memory.
When did I last sleep
grains of sand ne'er grace my eyes
never caked with desert lullabies
So dry, I can barely weep.
I don't remember what nightmares are
and though dreams haunt me
I don't know where they are
they're neither near nor far.
I've been awake so long I'm twice my age
I'm so tired I cannot even call on rage
Lust lies asleep while I watch it slumber
Hunger feeds on itself in a sightless umbra.
There are times when the astral planes call me
I stumble, my eyes droop, I feel heavy
It's like I'm embalming, passing into shadow
But I must continue to work, for I am a slave.
Some day I will sleep and I may never wake.
Such waking would be a second birth, fit for a cake.
How many candles would adorn this pastry?
I don't give a hoot, so long as it's tasty.
plummeting and foolish boy, his fear of flying taken from his fear of falling. His father told him not to go so far, his wings were weak and frail- reeling, retching- ripped to shreds.
demands your worship on aching knees with a wet mouth- she waits for Ares- the man who claims to show his love with bruises.
the blue lights of a neon sign reflecting to him as he laughs and starts a fight, his knife shining and dripping scarlet- dripping scarlet, dripping blue neon- the room quickly emptied of souls
Her wisdom has run dry, she sits in the back of a smoky bar. The bartender pours her another drink and she feels her tequila soaked mind slip into a coma, she doesn’t give- for once and forever- she is free
He sits surrounded by woman, the heavy beat pulsing through his bones and all he hears is heavy breathing and bass, he’s all alone- all alone and sitting- no one will look here for him here.
She dyes her hair and inks her skin in an alley, she wonders why her husband doesn’t look at her the same and traces her hand against the cold brick, pretending it’s his hand as she plays with- considers and contemplates- the idea of calling a lover,
He chain smokes and wanders the streets of New York, his pale skin pearlescent and soft, he thinks he loves Persephone - and the way a soul feels warm after death- a little too much.
He gets drunk off gin and tonic, his mind wandering to the way Athena looked with the early morning sun on her skin and how much he wanted to write his words- and love, his soft love- on her early morning skin.
He hunts for his prey, as the city of sin calls his name blatantly and boldly- he sips a glass of moonshine and curls his lips at the burning taste, he decides moon shine- is colder and softer when- harvested by the gods
at dusk, under the greed washed stars; with the metallic taste of homesickness on their tongues and the dull ache of gin and tonic in their bones- tonight and only tonight- the gods have lost their divinity
In Joy we are united,
the knots between us.
Her Joyful hands
are ours in this world;
and Love is the Will
in which nothing, save thought
separates us from true
His Christed feet
are ours in this world;
and Quiet Peace is the sound
each step makes
His footsteps are
like a drum
our Soul dances to
in Holy Passion
The Child eternal
Raised by the Divine Mother and Father
(Rise child, rise!)
falls into the escasy of Their Love
Shining the Light of the illuminated I
for what else could be, the nature or will
of the One birthed in the Heavens
of the fathers Peace,
and mothers Joy
where thine heart and eye are One
Divinity is an infinite concept- never ending and never beginning. Before creation there was the Divine and after attainment there is the Divine. To move within the Divine Way is to move within eternity. Within the eternally passionate and spontaneous movement of Divinity is the fullness of omnipotence.
To follow the Divine Spirit is to live within the shadow of creation. It is the ecstasy of “Buddhahood attained” and then laughed at in the orgasm of eternity. It is Enlightenment or Holiness always, then steadfastly shunned in the decadence of their implications.
To move within the oneness of the Divine is to perceive the sameness of things, but things are things and to say that they have no meaning, or that all meaning is one meaning, is to be lost within the ocean of the void- the indulgence of omnipotence.
To follow the Divine Spirit is to understand the deeper meaning of things. All worlds of the escapist and the realist are both real and unreal, for the Divine is Enlightenment, but illusionary in its idealistic terms. It is the great river on its never ending journey to the sea, but to reach the ocean is to be lost, to cease to be, for it is always within the journey that one finds meaning and never at journey’s end.
Those that do not know the harmony of the Divine live in materialistic emptiness. I WANT, I WANT, I WANT – a childish form of avarice, of impulsiveness and sentimentality, a continuous grasping, a world full of desire – the very foundations of fear and affliction. Those that proclaim the Divine find nothing but discriminative idealism. I AM, I AM, I AM – the indulgence of pride and love – an idealism based on a relativistic compassion, concealing in truth a desire for self-worship.
For those who travel in tune with the harmonics of the Divine- IT IS, IT IS, IT IS – spirit reflects its own reward. The bonds of illusion fall as leaves from a tree in autumn; all is right within the world for Spirit moves within.