Beyond the boundaries of time,
And the space for constant contact,  
Or the clusterfuck that becomes the mind,
And the way the lines of lives developing
Seem to lose parallels and begin to contrast,

Beyond the need or feel to act,
Or to attend to tact,
Pretensions unneeded in the face of facts,
Beyond the answers not given,
The questions, not asked,
The niches of the heart,
That fill and flood with other parts,
And other people,

Beyond the lies of the insidious,
The worries, seeking to make one wary,
The woes of trials faced in silence,
The doubt, screaming loud of worthlessness,

Beyond the disquiet,
Attempting to build walls between,
Dividing the entity from the worldy plane,
And all other beings,
We build strings, made of titanium,
As strong as the crust of neutron stars,

Connections that flourish,
Ties that extend, and refuse to be severed,
Bonds that live lifetimes;
Beyond... forever.

my face is an open casket;
hear it recite obituaries and
watch the mourners cheer
and throw wild roses at my feet;
it's where the rot has started spreading —
like whispers. like applause.
rising, until my skin
resembles raw obsidians
until i am no more.

watch me hang from the ropes —
in hypnotic grace, like suspended light
flying, swaying.
a circus freak.
a certain state of decay.
watch me fall: a weightless,
motionless thing in the shadows.

a vigil.

yet the curtains fall
and mourners leave one by one —
their wrists, stamped with lilac ink.

a vigil.
a funeral.

a freak show and
its curtain call.

lay a cloth on this open casket.
i do not want to be seen anymore.

I awaken suddenly,
Shifting instantaneously between two states,
As quickly as one breath succeeds the other.
Taking note of the missing hours of my existence,
With no dreams to fill them -
As if I had ceased to exist in that space.

I wonder, what life have I lived
In the REM of my being, in the realm of my mind?
And does it affect me so?
I feel a potent emptiness in the aftermath,
The disconnect of slumber and waking world
Leaves me shaken, attempting to ground myself,
To seal sleeping spirit into physical body,
Once more.

It is in these moments that I feel out of place,
The darkness of unknown memories calling -
Tempting me to delve into the deep again,
To escape to a place I won't remember,
To find the peace I can't forget.

Have you felt longing like this?  
An aching with no absolute source of satiation,
No known, or guaranteed fulfillment,
Like a puzzle with countless pieces,
And nothing before you fits.
It is evident then, that there is a lack,
Still, you struggle fruitlessly to reassemble the parts.

Along the hours between midnight and dawn,
I drift in this alternative universe,
Sinking into a dimension beyond my own,
Living countless lives in unfathomable time,
Only to return to mine, to mind, to life -  
With nothing but longing, to reminisce about,
And remember them by.

I have become one with the mountains,
As stone, steadfast and immovable,
Unshakeable, even as the earth quakes
Beneath my feet.
I am a marvel, in my fidelity,
Remaining loyal to the plane in which I exist,
Regardless of sleet, snow, or flood.
I bow not to the storms of life,
Nor am I swayed by the tides of destiny,
I cower for none, for I am the pinnacle of spirit,
Standing firm and without apology,
Amidst the rubble of the earth.

I watch as the sands erode,
And the winds are lost to time,
Witnessing the birth and death of worlds,
As a surplus of souls are reclaimed.
I mourn unabashedly still, at my peak,
My prominence unimportant in the face of emotions,
I am no less human -
Though at times, I may wish to be so.

In my resilience, I am ironwood, steely and firm,
And though I may waver in my struggle,
I flail not in my stance,
Thriving in stability,
Seeking to find a parity in energies.
I discover a reliable peace in this equilibrium,
Knowing beyond logic,
The value of self -  
The essential balance of soul, spirit, mind, and body.

Tied to the earthly plane by flesh and materialism,
By the demons of fear lurking in crevices of mind.
Inundated by pools of emotion, we drown repeatedly,
Feet never touching ground in enlightment,
Still, we are casualties in the ****** war waged by time.

Our Hacksaw Ridge, a ledge, we struggle to ascend,
Attempting a perilous climb, grappling mountains of uncertainty.
And troves of us fail, falling back to the gravitational pull of pain,
Victims of life, we are flummoxed by the chaos,
Running around like headless chickens,
Clucking senselessly, the entire time.

Nevertheless, we live to fight another day,
A spark of kundalini, coiled at the base of spine,
Unconscious of our inherent power, we are taken in by physicality,
The agonies beneath skin, insecurity and anxiety, crippling,
Stifling and overpowering, but not unconquerable.
An existential contemplation, we turn the pages of the book of life,
Wandering valleys of past experiences, unknowing of why.

The awakening is slow - questions like lava, broiling sluggishly in volcano,
Until it becomes a waterfall of fire, consuming every thought in it's path.
But these living flames have come to destroy only the system we built,
One that has long outlived it's usefulness and efficiency,
And is now a leash around the necks of us, whose eyes have been opened,
For whom these shallow fulfillments can never fill,
Whose spirits are restless and ready, now that the alarm has been rung.

This hamster wheel cannot replace the dimensional cycles of existence,
We are simply, running a race to nowhere, exhausting our wills.
Hoping to smell the roses, it is senseless then,
That we be constantly in motion, not knowing where we're headed,
But going all the same, until the wheel is wrecked by omnipotence,
And the secrets of sphere are revealed to conscious mind.

We have no choice in the aftermath, but to break chains,
To demand liberation, and force the hands of fate to open,
To perform discovery of self, an archaeological dig site of graves,
Becoming accomodated with death, it's skeletal fingers comforting.
Embodying the inner god, we make miracle of resurrection,
Laying hands on deadened souls, we come alive amidst darkness,
Casting life into body, we chase away shadows of doubt,
Becoming spirit in temporary skin, shining light on the journey,
Leading those who would follow, to the entrance of a true awakening.

Amidst the drought you bring flood,
An overflow of energies
Meant to heal, to protect, to guide.
You send forth surges of truth,
Burning away evil intentions,
Revealing secrets of earth,
And exposing the lies of men.

In your power, you reign,
Omnipresent and omnipotent,
Cleansing the spirit of weakness,
Your strength flowing like rivers.
A symbol of royalty -
You embody the qualities of deity,
Protecting the masses,  
By provoking the awakening.

Your claws pierce the hides of the enemy,
Your maw a doorway to deliverance,
Spilling gospel as you spew flames,
Destruction superseded by rebirth on plane.
The havoc you wreak is necessary,
For the blind have lain comfortable in ignorance,
The old must be devoured to invoke conception,
The breaking of moulds formed since system's inception,
Must be induced to inspire reflection;

The dismantling of corruption has begun,
And it starts with you and I (eye).

I could not express her story (history)
In so few a word,
Her tale, not so easily grasped,
Wrestled by ink, or captured on page,
Still, I could write her into song,
Into script, into play,
And still not contain her essence,

For the self is not tangible,
The ego, not so concrete,
It is all so much more... conceptual,
More supposition and faith,
Less rigid in structure and being,
More, free - fluid, and everchanging,
As whimsical as the summer breeze,
Neither eternal or brief,
But omnipresent all the same,
As everything of this existence must go,
The only thing a surety, is that all things flow,

For in this plane,
There is nothing that is entirely true,
Nothing guaranteed, or completely seen,
Without tainting the view,
Be it through perception or ideology,
With the intention of labelling,
Of condensing the inexplicable into something,
Simple...but she is, incompressible, truly,
She is... beyond just anyone's comprehension.

Maybe millions of light years away,
There are a people,
Born of stardust and soul, as we were,
Searching for purpose in the meadows of sky,
Unable to still the discontent in their minds,
Taught that there were naught to believe in,
Beyond that which lives before their eyes;

Maybe they ache for connection,
A hunger deep, and consuming,
As they toil seemingly in vain,
Yearning to find some sign of meaning,
Craving more than the empty ideals given,
Desperate to escape the constraints of religion,
To break free of the rat-race,
To venture off of the fruitlessly narrow trail,
A path that leads nowhere, but around,
A snake eating it's tail,
An infinity, in the darkness of ignorance.

Or maybe they surpassed us aeons ago,
Welcomed the light of cosmos as we have not,
Embraced the self, and all that it is,
And completed the journey of enlightenment,
Awakening, then teaching those who slumbered,  
Until they were all consciously connected,
Surpassing the concepts of 3rd, 5th, & 7th dimensions,
Regaining the abilities long hidden in subconscious,
To create, to heal, to transcend realms, as they once did;
Maybe, a few of those starseeds live amongst us now,
And maybe they came, to show us how.

Sometimes I really do feel like an alien in my own skin,
Like I could twist and turn, transform and try,
All the years of my life and still not get it right.
I don't know who made it that way.
Couldn't tell you where the notion developed,
Or who proved to be truth before I did.
I don't know which artist created this outline,
Sketched it in ink, and entitled it a lifestyle -
One I once dared not color outside the lines of.

But I figure, if I cannot be a Mona Lisa of a painting,
I could be a more original, less world reknown piece
Because the regard of outside perspectives is less important
Than the quality of art produced in me.
Maybe I've been too focused on the colors already on the palette,
Instead of the mountains of shades I could imagine.
Maybe the skin I wear is black, like mourning, like darkness,
But these shadows make it possible to appreciate light.
Maybe the issue isn't me. Maybe I just need a new canvas,
One that resembles my possibilities and not my limitations.
One that allows room for breath, and exploration, and mistakes -
That isn't stifled with labels, or schemes, or systems.
And maybe I have to create that for myself.

Sometimes, I really do feel like an alien in my own skin,
But that doesn't make it any less mine,
Nor any less worthy of love.
And maybe I can love this martian without having all the answers,
Or even a planet or plane to belong to.
Maybe the person behind the pen, or pencil, or paintbrush, is me,
If I decide to be.